Priceless Treasure
by Rosywonder
Summary: Three brothers separated by war, a lost painting and a neo-Nazi group intent on creating a new homeland draw in the men from UNCLE to their web of intrigue.  But is there someone even more sinister lurking behind this plot?
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Kiev, September 1941

She could hear the piano, and Madame Usenka's sharp tones, as Marina quietly closed the door behind her, and stepped wearily into the hall.

'Where is the soul of the music, my boy? When you play, you must express the very _soul_ of the music! It is not enough to merely play the notes, however expertly. Now, again!'

'Yes, Madame, I will try,' a tired voice replied, then, after a slight pause, the music began again.

_Für Elise_. She had played it for Nikolai on summer evenings, the baby fast asleep in his basket, arms thrown back in an ecstasy of contentment, as if he too shared in his father's enjoyment of the soft notes. They had sat together quietly afterwards, city sounds of trams and voices on the pavement reasserting themselves through the open windows of the apartment. Now, he was gone and the baby, grown into a gentle boy now, played the same, haunting tune on the piano.

They both swivelled their heads as she leaned against the doorframe of the living room, the boy's eyes sparkling as he caught sight of her. Somehow, he managed to continue playing, feeling the pressure of his teacher's hand on his shoulder as he finished the piece. Marina clapped her hands enthusiastically and came forward, kissing his soft blond head before exchanging greetings with Madame Usenka.

'Remember, Illya Nikovetch, daily scales practice, whatever is happening out there' Madame Usenka boomed, as her pupil slid off the piano stool, her gaze taking in Marina before directing itself towards the window.

'Yes Madame' he replied dutifully, before melting away to his room, in search, Marina knew, of a book or some paper to draw the fantastic 'inventions' his six-year old mind came up with, and which he would proudly show her over dinner.

Marina sat down on the small dark red sofa and closed her eyes.

'Thank you Anya Illyevna,' she said wearily. 'He is making progress, don't you think?' Madame Usenka sat down next to her, her every movement neat and controlled, like the fitted black clothes that she always wore.

'I do not tell him of course, but he is an _exceptional_ pupil,' she said, a rare, warm smile playing across her thin lips.

Marina walked over to the samovar, gently steaming in the corner of the room.

'I have put in the _zavarka, _Marina Alexandrevna,' Madame Usenka murmured, indicating the teapot on top. Marina nodded, and returned with two small delicate china cups. Madame Usenka gave the younger woman a sharp look as she handed her the tea.

'Did they come today? On your ward?' Marina nodded sadly.

'Of course. The SS is nothing if not efficient in their search for children who will fit their warped definition of what constitutes a "master race".' Madame Usenka uttered a contemptuous sound from deep in her throat, before gently sipping her tea.

Marina had witnessed their advance into the city of course, and what this particular group of Nazis were looking for. She had seen distraught parents begging doctors to hide their sick children from the scrutiny of the black-uniformed men. Fortunately, they had not been that interested in any children who were incapable of being transported away from Kiev to new homes in the Fatherland.

He was waiting for her in the office after one such inspection. As she walked through the ward, she could see his head with the familiar black peaked cap above the frosted glass part of the partition separating the little room from the larger ward beyond it. Entering, she heard the familiar click of his boots and his clipped, accented voice.

'Good morning _frau doktor_. Sturmbannführer Konstantin Blau, at your service.' To her horror, he had picked up a framed photograph of her family on the desk. She stood rigid, her tongue feeling as if it filled her mouth, preventing her from speaking. He looked up and smiled at her, his eyes taking in her appearance in uncomfortable detail, reading the label on her white coat as if she was a strange animal at a zoo he was trying to discover the name of.

'Dr Kuryakina. That is a _Russian_ name, is it not, Doctor?' he said, the word 'Russian' sounding as if he was forcing himself to say it.

'My husband is Russian, as was my mother,' she replied stiffly, her eyes holding his as he continued to glance at the photograph in the frame.

'And this is your son?' He brought the photograph up closer to examine the little boy who stared back at him. His eyes narrowed slightly as he put the photograph down. 'So, a Russian boy of, what, six years, with blond hair and, I imagine, blue eyes like his mother, no?'

Marina swallowed a little and forced herself to keep looking straight at him as he replaced the picture on the desk.

'Illya is with his uncle and aunt in the country at the moment.' The lie came easily, but his face was difficult to read. He came up closer to her, the smell of his black leather boots and his immaculate uniform invading her senses, forcing her to take a step backwards.

'Really. I hope, Doctor, for your sake, that you are not trying to deceive me in this matter.' Nodding his head at her, he turned on his heel and departed, leaving her with a sick, dead feeling in her stomach.

'I don't know whether he believed me or not, it's so hard to read human feelings in a face where the eyes look so dead,' she said, Madame Usenka nodding vigorously.

'Be careful Marina; if they know about him, they will check, and they will come for him.' Madame Usenka had hardly finished speaking before a familiar, and gut-wrenching sound could be heard below in the street. Marina rushed to the window to see a large, open truck parked in full view, soldiers helping a number of young children on board, as others roughly pushed back screaming women from the side of the road.

'Hurry! Hide him now or it will be too late!' Madam Usenka shouted out, picking up her coat and hat and going into the corridor.

As if on cue, Illya appeared, clutching a small brown bear with a red kerchief tied jauntily round its neck.

'Take him, and I will delay them!' Madame Usenka hissed, opening the door and then slamming it behind her with a resounding crash, as the sound of boots could be heard on the stairs below.

Marina could hear the strains of an argument as she returned from the bedroom; Madame Usenka's sharp, high-pitched voice followed by the lower, German accent of someone barking out orders in increasingly impatient tones. A scream was followed by the thunderous hammering of fists on her door. She counted to five and then slowly opened it, before it was forced wider by a familiar boot.

She gasped at the sight of her friend lying in a pool of blood at the top of the stairs.

'Leave her, she is of no concern to you now.' Sturmbannführer Blau grasped her arm and forced her backwards along the passage to the living room, indicating to two other soldiers to search the apartment with a sharp flick of his head. They stood facing each other, only the steaming sound of the samovar providing the background to the noise of the soldiers wrenching out furniture and throwing objects down as they looked. Blau glanced round the room in the same way as he had regarded Marina earlier in the Hospital, with barely concealed disdain for an inferior race to whom he had the authority to meet out any kind of treatment he considered suitable or necessary.

There was a shout from one of the soldiers searching the apartment. Blau unholstered his gun and signalled to Marina to move towards the other room. What had been Nikolai's and her bedroom was now a scene of utter chaos. A chest of drawers containing their clothes was on its side, the drawers and their contents strewn over the room. Ornaments and photos had been flung onto the floor and smashed beneath the feet of the soldiers, who had turned the bed over and yanked the mattress to the floor. As Blau entered the room, they came to attention, an odd sight amidst the disaster of the room.

'The wardrobe cannot be moved, Sturmbannführer. We have searched inside,' one of the soldiers said, before returning to rigidity beside the other. Blau looked round, uttering a deep sigh.

'Put the bed back and get out. Wait outside the apartment,' he barked, as they both came to and scrambled out of the room after heaving the bed upright again. He gave the wardrobe a kick, before turning to Marina, holstering his gun, and removing his cap.

'It appears, _Frau Doktor_, that you are telling the truth, at least for now,' he said, coming closer to the still woman with the startlingly blue eyes now glaring intently into his face.

He noticed a stray tendril of hair coming down from the rather severe pleat her hair was fastened back into. Coming nearer, he reached behind her head and pulled at the grips holding her hair, aware of her frozen gaze, and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Her hair was thick, a beautiful natural blonde and very straight, falling over her shoulders as he pulled more and more grips from her head. He pushed her down onto the mattress, forcing up her dress and ripping at her underwear as he felt her stiffen with fear beneath him. An overpowering feeling of power took hold of him, giving him the right to exact something from this woman who had managed to withhold her child from him.

She was virtually silent throughout, only forcing back a low cry when he entered her and sucked viciously at her neck with his mouth as he reached his climax. She lay there motionless while he did up his uniform, only rolling over slightly and pulling down her dress before he left the room.

Forcing herself up from the bed onto her knees, and suppressing a sob, Marina managed to pull on her clothes, before very slowly, half walking, and half crawling dragging herself to the wardrobe door. It was already open, the clothes emptied out onto the floor round it in total disarray, her husband's best suit in a tangled mess on top of a number of other, now ruined garments. After gently pressing on the back of the wardrobe, the hidden panel eventually swung forward in her grasp, revealing a small door let into the chimney breast of the room. Fighting back tears, Marina searched for the tiny key hidden in the brick above. Suddenly she began to feel a great wave of panic sweep over her as she fumbled with the key. She had no idea of how long she had lain on the mattress. Perhaps he was now lying unconscious in this tiny space. Perhaps . . .

Frantically, she forced the key in the lock and turned, scrabbling at the door and then yanking it open. A pair of wide blue, tear-stained eyes stared out, before he fell out of the tiny space into her arms.

'Oh mama I was quiet like you said, even when I heard the Fritzes shouting. I held onto comrade Sergei, but I was scared a little. I'm sorry mama.' She could feel that he was soaking wet and shivering, his clothes black with the soot of the chimney, the little brown bear clasped tightly to his chest.

'Oh Illyusha, you were such a brave boy, it's alright now, everything is alright now, everything is going to be alright, I promise.'

xxxxxxx

June 1968

Kuryakin felt the sweat gather on his forehead and begin to drip down the side of his face as he stared at the minute instruments in front of him. Taking a tiny screwdriver from his set of tools, he began to slowly adjust the cogs on the machine, his brow creased with concentration. He could feel a cold wet patch on his shirt beginning to spread across his chest in strange contrast to the sweat now pouring down the back of his neck. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, longing to rip off his glasses and wipe his head. The weight on him was becoming unbearable in this heat, making the job impossible, if it hadn't been so from the beginning. Eventually, after a few more twists, he put down the tiny tool.

'I think it may work now, _lapin.'_

Anastasiya raised her head from where she had been sobbing quietly into her father's shirt.

'Chi-chi better?' she whispered, her face now close to his, violet eyes huge with misery.

'Well, there's only one way to find out, isn't there?' Shifting her onto his knee, he gently turned the toy round to face them. Chi-Chi, as the panda was named, after his very much bigger real counterpart at London Zoo, sat motionless, a rather mournful look on his face, his arms frozen in anticipation of being able to play a diminutive set of drums, two little cymbals attached to the feet below them.

Anastasiya had developed a fascination for all things Panda since their visit to London Zoo in the spring, her joy being complete when her Uncle Napoleon had bought her the panda shortly afterwards. Illya had begged his wife not to make him repair the toy when Tasiya had fallen over with it in the garden, but, in the end, the sobbing toddler had won out.

He placed his daughter's tiny hand over the key and together they turned it. For a few seconds nothing happened, a tiny sob beginning to form in Tasiya's throat again. Then suddenly, with a crash which made Illya jump slightly, Chi-chi's feet swung into action, rapidly followed by a resounding roll of the drums from his churning arms.

Almost immediately afterwards, the air was punctuated by a loud sobbing cry, followed after a gap of about five seconds, by another, equally loud one. Anastasiya ran joyfully out into the garden holding Chi-Chi, who was still banging and crashing full blast as she bawled 'Passa, Pabba, Passa, Pabba!' in endless succession. Illya groaned slightly and walked towards the twin bawling noise coming from the large pram on the terrace outside the French windows.

'Shh, it's only Chi-Chi starting up again,' he whispered, starting to rock the handle with his hand. Two sets of blue eyes regarded him seriously from either end of the pram. It had been thought almost from their birth that they were identical. Now it was blindingly obvious, in fact Napoleon referred to them as 'the triplets' – Misha, Valya and Illya. It was true; both boys had his blue eyes, and now, lots of thick, straight, blond hair, cut across their forehead in a style almost identical to their father's silky locks. However, they differed in personality; Misha easy going, biddable, sunny in disposition, while Napoleon called Valya 'little Illya'.

'He's got your scowl perfectly,' he commented one day when the Solos had braved Sunday lunch at Grove Street. Valya matched Illya in stubbornness, awkward and unwilling to comply while Misha radiated a calm, laid-back approach to anything and anyone coming into his world.

As if to confirm his thoughts, Valentin, unlike his brother, who had immediately closed his eyes and fallen asleep again, began to wriggle under the cotton blanket, throwing his arms about until Illya pulled him out.

'Be kind to your brother now,' he whispered in the baby's ear, as he patted his back and started to walk in the direction his daughter had just hurtled a few minutes previously.

He found the other three children in the part of the garden Tess called 'the orchard', sitting on the bench underneath the largest of the fruit trees playing with Chi-Chi, and some other, quieter toys that they had laid out on a rug on the grass beneath them. Illya sat down on the rug, the squirming Valentin immediately going down on all fours and moving rapidly towards the bench, and Pablo in particular, holding up his arms until he was comfortably seated on his brother's lap, making the trio a quartet.

'I see you've mended it, dad,' Pablo said, smiling, managing to replace the now wound down toy with another, quieter panda which Pascale had named 'Comrade Patch'.

'Sadly, yes, but I think even Chi-Chi's decibel level would have been beaten by your sister's wailing if I hadn't,' Illya replied, lying on his back and putting his glasses on the rug next to him. He heard Tasiya shouting 'Papa, papa', then the thump of her feet hitting the ground from the bench, but somehow, even his lightning reactions were not quick enough to prevent her from crunching straight over his glasses as she threw herself at him.

'Tasiya! Oh dear, _quel disastre! Regarde tes lunettes, cheri!' _

Illya sat upright, pulling Anastasiya away from the broken mess that had been his glasses. Thérèse stood over him, working hard not to grin as she gently gathered up the smashed remains into her hand, but he could tell from her writhing lips that Anastasiya had achieved in the last few seconds what her mother had failed to do in the last two years.

He gazed at the thick black frames, now broken into several pieces by his daughter's stomping actions on them.

'Perhaps they're mendable. I've had those since I was at University,' he said sadly, trying to ignore the grin now forming on Thérèse's mouth.

'What, the birth control department?' she retorted, arching her eyebrows and then pouting slightly, enough to make him wish the children weren't quite as close.

'What's the birth control department, papa?' Pascale said suddenly, looking up from a book which was usually firmly fixed to her hand from morning to night.

'It's nothing, just your mama trying to be funny,' Illya said, trying to look cross. 'Well, Pascale, I suppose that means that I will have to join you at the opticians,' he said darkly, noticing a look of barely concealed triumph flash across his wife's face.

'And Pascale will make sure that this time you choose something more flattering,' she said, her eyes reflecting the dappled sun as she pushed her hair out of the way.

'Oh yes, I will tell the optician not to give him the glasses from the Birth Control department, _oui_ papa?' Illya lay back on the rug and closed his eyes.

'_Oui, Pascale, si tu veux.'_

CHAPTER 2

'I'm sorry about the glasses.' Illya rolled over and looked up into the now darkened brown eyes gazing at him.

'No you're not. You've hated them ever since you first saw them.' Thérèse lay down gently on top of him, her lips now pressing into his slightly open ones. After a few minutes of intensely pleasurable kissing, she rolled over, bringing him with her.

'Illya,' she whispered, now so close it was barely a murmur, 'are you happy with me . . . well . . .'

'Finishing your PhD?' He raised his eyebrows imperceptibly. 'Of course. Despite what is said at the office, I am not a chauvinistic pig who expects his wife just to keep house and bear children.' He frowned a little. 'At least I don't think I am.'

'You aren't at all!' Thérèse snorted slightly, stroking his hair back behind his ears. 'You're the very model of the socialist new man.'

'I am?' She could see his delightfully innocent expression asserting itself whenever she said something which confused or amazed him. Holding him close, she began to stroke his head gently, feeling the powerful muscles in his neck and shoulders as her hands moved across his skin.

'It's only two days a week. I'll be working on my thesis on one day, and then giving a few lectures and tutorials in the department on the other day. And now that there's that new day care centre that your organisation appears to have infiltrated, we don't need to worry about the littlies, do we?' She could hear a sharply indrawn breath.

'What centre?'

'You heard. Jo assured me that come next week, Brenda is running a nursery for those of you strange beings who are attempting to combine a career in UNCLE with raising a family.'

Illya laid back slightly, his hair glinting in the light coming from the street lamp outside their window.

'I find it really hard to believe that you don't know about this, seeing that you head the list for "UNCLE agents with the most offspring under ten",' Thérèse whispered, pulling herself up the bed slightly and beginning to stroke his ears with the tip of her fingers.

'Mm. So do I. I suppose it's not that surprising though, since I've been out of the country quite a lot in the last few weeks. So, fount of all knowledge, where is this crèche?'

'Apparently, it's in the building adjacent to yours. Jo says it's going to be very well equipped, and, of course have the added bonus of having some of you lot to protect the next generation of supermen and women.'

'Well there's that in its favour, I suppose. As long as they're not ringing me every five minutes to report some catastrophe involving my daughter,' he groaned, pulling Thérèse towards him.

'I can't think what you could possibly mean, _amado_.'

They lay quietly for a while, the house silent, yet Illya felt the presence of the sleeping children around them, as if there was one, giant heartbeat they were all sharing as a family. He reflected on the year since the boys had been born. The trauma surrounding the birth had taken a while to subside, Thérèse helped by the tiny babies' dependence on her for their sustenance and growth, and he, having to play Misha for what turned out to be another three months, being able to remain close to his family, and especially to Pascale.

She had adjusted well in the first place, forming a close bond with Pablo in particular. Nevertheless, Illya had spent what felt like a considerable time at school outside the Principal's office, wondering what had happened next in the school life of his eldest daughter, as the door opened, and the formidable figure of Sister Stephanie uttered the now familiar words,

'Mr Kuryakin, we have a little problem with Pascale.' After a year of adjustment, the visits were becoming less frequent, and at last, a succession of Pascale's friends tramped through their house, to match the continuing, but more thunderous sounds of Pablo and Marv.

After THRUSH had finally begun to realise that their plan to infiltrate the UNCLE security system had spectacularly backfired, his job seemed to change yet again, Waverly insisting that he take a lead role in the interrogation of the numerous THRUSH agents that UNCLE had brought in across the world, as a result of the information gained through the computer. Napoleon, still not entirely recovered from the drugs he had received in San Francisco, had been seconded to several UNCLE HQs to run the station in their leader's absence, the rest of the time being spent closeted with Waverly discussing and implementing strategic policies. Illya couldn't help but think that the old man was preparing the ground for both their and his inevitable retirements in what Illya hoped was the fairly distant future. He could see that Waverly had picked this time, first and foremost because it suited the Command, but also, Illya believed, because he considered they both needed some kind of breathing space. Now he felt that that time had come to an end. They were both mentally and physically in good shape, the families were stable, and, perhaps as important, both Solo and Kuryakin wanted and needed to return to the field, together.

Napoleon was in his usual position, lounging on the easy chair in their room as he came in.

'What is this vision that I see before me? Come let me clutch thee,' he said, putting down his coffee cup as Connie handed Illya his coffee from the machine behind her desk.

'Thank you Lady Macbeth, for that highly inaccurate quote,' Illya murmured from behind the coffee cup, as Connie gently tugged his chin towards her.

'They are very nice; we can see those baby blues as clear as daylight now. You'll have all the girls parading through here once this gets around,' she said, going back to her desk, and fetching some files which she proceeded to lay out on the table.

'You think so?' Napoleon said in his 'he can't be as attractive as I am' voice, head to one side.

'Don't worry Napoleon; I'm sure you'll soon return to the top of the 'most lusted after male' list in the typing pool,' Illya muttered, sitting down and pulling the edge of one of the files towards him.

'Mr W wanted you both to familiarise yourselves with these before your meeting,' Connie said, putting her hand on Illya's shoulder. 'Don't quote me on it, but they look like something one of your kids could turn out, if you take my drift.'

Napoleon frowned as he opened the folder. Inside was a selection of colour reproductions of paintings, the name of the artist carefully noted on the back of each sheet. He could see Kuryakin doing what he usually did, trying to arrange the sheets in some sort of order or sequence, but even he seemed to be having difficulty in seeing the connection between the works of art in front of him.

'Um, I know some of the artists here, but the only connection I can see seems to be that most of the paintings are modern; there's nothing older than the early twentieth century, and a lot of these are by German artists, by the look of the names.'

'Exactly my point,' Connie burst in, staring at the pictures over Illya's shoulder. 'I don't mind that one; at least you can see what it is,' she added, pointing at one of the sheets.

'It's a painting of the artist Chagall's daughter, Ida,' Illya replied, smiling. The woman in the picture seemed to be staring out of a blue framed window, her brown hair flowing down the back of her deep pink dress. Illya followed the hair down the picture with his finger before looking up at Napoleon.

'And you happen to know this because . . .'

'Because we have a copy of this in our study, and because Chagall is the subject of Tess's PhD thesis.' Napoleon made his usual face when confronted with something he knew little about. He shuffled the papers back into the file and sat back on the chair, steepling his fingers underneath his chin.

'OK, so tell me Professor, what is the connection?' he said. Illya sighed, and looked at the picture again.

'This painting was owned by a German Jewish family before the war. It was seized by the Nazis as part of their attack on so-called 'degenerate art'.' Napoleon nodded.

'Ah yes, they preferred all that stuff with people you could recognise in them,' he replied, looking sideways through his eyes at Connie.

'Quite. After the war, according to Tess, this picture disappeared, and to date, despite all efforts to trace it by the family, it has never been seen again. So I guess, Napoleon, these other paintings are also of that provenance.'

Napoleon stood up, picking up the folder as he glanced at his watch.

'Well, we'd better mosey along to Mr Waverly and see if your theory holds up, partner,' he said, giving Illya a whack on the head with the folder as he passed.

xxxxxxxx

The screen above Waverly's head was already flickering into life as they took their seats, another set of the copies of the paintings already arranged in the middle of the table.

'I presume that you gentlemen have had time to peruse these, um, paintings,' Waverly began, waving his hand vaguely towards the centre of the table.

'I presume that he's not impressed with them either,' Napoleon whispered into the back of Illya's head as the Russian put his glasses back on, having, as Napoleon noticed, taken them off in the corridor, presumably to avert any unwanted female attention.

'When we last went to his house, Tess and he got into a long conversation about art,' Illya murmured, 'but Mrs Waverly was asking me all about the twins so I didn't really hear what his views were.'

A man's face appearing on the screen diverted their attention away from the paintings.

'This, gentlemen, is Cyrus Blau.'

'German?' Napoleon ventured, staring at the screen.

'No, Austrian,' Illya replied, rather savagely, looking down, his wide brow suddenly clouded by some memory which Napoleon could only hazard was connected to the name of this man.

'Quite right, Mr Kuryakin.' He paused, both men looking towards Illya.

'Er, I don't know him, but I presume he is related to Konstantin Blau,' Illya continued, looking up. Napoleon sighed.

'And he is . . .'

'_Sturmbahnfuhrer_ Konstantin Blau to be exact; late of the SS. Otherwise known as 'the child-stealer of Kiev,' Illya replied, gazing at his partner.

'Oh,' Napoleon said, deciding to ask for further details later, when his partner looked calmer than the glowering face next to him indicated was his present mood. 'So what is the relationship between these two?'

'Brothers, Mr Solo; in fact there are three brothers, Konstantin, as Mr Kuryakin has mentioned, Cyrus and Darius.'

'Ah, Kings of Persia and Roman Emperors,' Napoleon murmured. 'Their parents must have been looking under 'Rulers of the World' in the baby book.' Illya's face lightened slightly, a smirk beginning to form.

'Mm. Perhaps they passed the book onto your parents, Napoleon.' Napoleon curled his lip slightly in the Russian's direction before returning to look at the screen.

'Konstantin Blau, as Mr Kuryakin rightly said, was indicted for war crimes in 1945, notably for his part in the abduction of children from the Ukraine and Poland to Germany during the occupation of those countries. He managed to slip through the net of the allied forces, but was thought to have been killed by the Russians shortly after the end of the war. 'There were two other brothers, Cyrus and Darius, both somewhat younger than Konstantin, in fact the youngest one, Darius I think, was just a child at the end of the war. At any rate they were therefore not held responsible in any ways for the sins of their elder brother, as it were. In 1949, we know that Cyrus Blau left Austria for Great Britain and set up what has proved to be a remarkably successful art dealership in London, where he still resides for the most part, but as for the youngest brother, he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.'

'So, murky fraternal link notwithstanding, sir, why should we be interested in the brothers Blau?' Napoleon asked. The image on the screen changed to the Chagall painting they had been looking at previously.

'This painting, previously in the Aaronheim family, was . . . 'but you know about this, don't you Mr Kuryakin?' Waverly said, smiling at the Russian agent. I had a most illuminating chat with your wife about it when you visited us. She told me a great deal about its provenance. A sad story indeed.'

Napoleon stared intently at Illya, a 'fill me in' expression flooding his face.

'Um, as I was saying before, Napoleon, the provenance of this painting, and the others in the file seem to point towards the Nazi purge of so-called 'degenerate art' in the 30's,' Illya began. 'The Aaronheims, according to Tess, were virtually wiped out as a family, only one son, Orin Aaronheim, surviving the camps. I think she said he immigrated to Israel after the war.'

'Precisely, Mr Kuryakin. Orin Aaronheim has never given up hope of finding his lost painting, so much so, that he has worked with every agency in Europe and beyond over the years, in the belief that one day it would re-appear.'

'And it has?' Napoleon said, leaning forward to glance at the images on the circular desk in front of him. As well as a copy of the picture of Cyrus Blau, there were also photographs of two equally remarkable looking women. The first was a harsh platinum blond, her bright red lipstick a startling contrast to the whiteness of her short, spiky hair. The other woman presented an almost complete contrast. It was difficult to ascertain the colour of her eyes behind the rather thick black framed glasses she was wearing, but she was in every other way noticeably chic, from her smooth dark brown chignon hairstyle to the cut of her Chanel suit. He slid the pictures towards Kuryakin, a similar smirk to his partner's forming on his lips.

'Seems she might have been to the same opticians as you previously patronised,' he whispered.

'Hardly likely, since I purchased the glasses you're referring to in Cambridge, and, by the look of this sign, this young lady appears to be a Swiss banker,' Kuryakin replied, staring at the photograph.

She had been caught by the camera at what looked like a kind of conference. She was sitting behind a long table, flanked on either side by serious looking suited men. In front of them all were a series of plastic place names, indicating the different European banks they represented.

'Not yet, Mr Solo,' Waverly continued, frowning slightly. 'But Mr Aaronheim has assured our Jerusalem office that he has some information which he thinks deserves investigation. If his allegations are true, there may be a link between at the very least Cyrus Blau, the young lady you are looking at, Mr Solo, an organisation calling itself 'The Adler Society', and possibly, the stolen paintings themselves.'

'So who is she?' Napoleon asked, noticing that his partner had dragged the other photograph of the blonde woman towards himself.

'Her name is Cecilia Luft. She is a Swiss national, working for a private bank, Franck Merkel AG, in Geneva. Aaronheim has evidence that she has attended meetings and functions at the Adler Society on a number of occasions in the last year, as you'll see from the attached list.'

'So, what is the nature of this Adler Society, sir?' Napoleon continued, putting down the photograph. Waverly pressed a button in the desk, replacing the image of Ida Chagall with that of a large, elegant door of neo-classical design.

'London?' Illya suddenly interposed, looking up from his study of the blonde woman.

'Yes, that is where the society is situated, Robert Adam Street to be precise, Mr Kuryakin,' Waverly replied, swinging round towards the screen. 'It was founded in 1952 ostensibly as a private club for wealthy patrons of the arts, particularly fine art, so it claims. It is highly secretive, and our people in London have had little success even in obtaining a list of members' names, let alone gaining access. In order to be accepted as a member, apparently, one has to be not only extremely rich, but also be nominated by at least three other members of the society. One of our agents did make some headway with a young lady employed there, however, who suggested to him that the political opinions and values of the third Reich were, as he put it, 'alive and kicking' within its walls. One thing we do know, gentlemen, is that Cyrus Blau is a founder member of that society.'

Illya scratched the back of his head and ran his hand through his hair before putting the picture he had been examining down on the table.

'I can't quite see how this relates to the art, sir,' he said quietly, 'and, how this woman fits in.' Napoleon leaned over his shoulder to take another look.

'Another of your favourite type of master race frauleins, comrade,' he murmured. 'I can feel another engagement coming on.' Illya glared sideways before noticing that the image on the wall had changed again. There followed a series of photographs taken by an unseen hand from across the street to the Adler Society headquarters. Illya recognised Cecilia Luft being given access, followed swiftly by a picture of Cyrus Blau, arm in arm with the blonde he had asked about.

'We don't have any firm evidence yet, and that is hopefully your mission, gentlemen, but Aaronheim has claimed to have proof that at least some of the missing works of art are probably stored in the vaults of the Franck Merkel bank in Geneva in numbered accounts. If this is the case, then it seems more than just coincidence that a notable art dealer and an employee of that bank are meeting together in a highly secretive, right-wing, possibly even pro-Nazi society. Worthy of investigation, don't you think?' Waverly picked up his pipe and began to knock it out on the ash tray near to his chair.

'Oh, and in case it isn't obvious, Mr Kuryakin, the woman you enquired about, that is Ottilie Blackthorn, otherwise known as Mrs Cyrus Blau. She has an interesting past, most notably as a somewhat notorious female dominatrix in West Berlin and New York; that is before she married Blau and moved to London.'

Waverly reached behind him and put two files onto the table, before swinging it towards the two agents.

'Mr Solo, I think you should attempt to infiltrate this society, and when you have, make every effort to establish a relationship with Miss Luft. We need to know what exactly her role is in all this.' Napoleon opened his file, skimming the details of his cover.

'Mr Kuryakin, I'd like you to go to Israel and talk to Orin Aaronheim. Apparently, he was unwilling to surrender the written evidence he has linking this Society to the art thefts until apparently a friend of yours persuaded him you could be trusted with it.' Illya frowned momentarily, then began to smile.

'David Kaplan, sir?' Waverly nodded. 'We were at Cambridge together,' Illya said. 'His family are Russian, came over to England in the twenties. In the fifties, they immigrated to Israel, and David followed when he'd finished his medical training. He's a _Kibbutznik_, Napoleon, you know?' Napoleon groaned slightly.

'Only too well. I'm sure you'll enjoy all that communal living, comrade,' he replied. 'Bring me back an avocado, won't you?'

Waverly coughed, signalling that the meeting was not quite at an end.

'You both have time to study the relevant documents before you leave, but you'll also need these for tomorrow night's, um, occasion.' He spun the table round again, this time, two printed cards heading in their direction.

'Darryl Moore's engagement party?' Illya gasped, frowning deeply.

'At a very grand location,' Solo added. 'Anyway, thought you'd have already got your invitation, seeing that you are his number one hero,' he whispered. Illya sighed, turning towards Waverly, Napoleon recognising the look which usually meant he was trying to find some sort of excuse not to attend.

'Normally I would leave it entirely up to you as to whether you chose to attend this function or not,' Waverly was saying, 'but in the interests of good relations with the military forces of this country, I feel that both of you should be present, together with your wives of course,' he added.

Napoleon nodded his head slightly, feeling a little pleased that for once he appeared to know something the Russian didn't.

'Oh yes, hasn't he got a relative high up at West Point?' he said, receiving an affirmatory nod from Waverly.

'Brigadier General Dawkins is Mr Moore's uncle,' Waverly replied. 'After the fiasco with the Vietnam thing, I would prefer it if we can re-establish at least a more friendly relationship with the army, if possible. So, gentlemen, Friday evening please, and, Mr Kuryakin . . .'

'Yes sir. Regulation length.'

CHAPTER 3

Thérèse stared silently out of the cab window as the increasingly grand residences of this particularly wealthy part of Long Island flashed past in the lengthening shadows of the evening sunlight.

'Where has Goldilocks disappeared off to, anyway?' Jo said, giving Napoleon another cursory glance, hoping that he wouldn't realise just how stunning she thought he was looking.

'Um, he was called in to translate some urgent message from the Ukraine,' Napoleon murmured, 'seeing that half the Translation Section is at this function tonight.' Thérèse turned slightly, and then returned to her fixed stare out of the window.

They had not been out together like this for some time, and she had leapt at the chance, organising Marina and Peter to cover the babysitting and making sure the beautiful tuxedo with the plain shawl collar that suited him so much, was pressed and ready for action. Seemingly, he had even made some effort himself, returning from work with fractionally shorter hair than when he had left home that morning.

'I'll just have a shower and then . . .' He had come into the bedroom and seen her standing at the end of the bed putting on the earrings he had surprised her with only days previously. Thérèse smiled in spite of herself at the thought of his expression, and the embrace that had followed it.

'You look beautiful,' he had said simply, holding her lightly to avoid crushing the black silk dress she was wearing. Therese had run her hand through the neat hair, tracing the edge of his ear with her finger.

'Mm. You don't look half bad yourself,' she had murmured, trying not to get too much lipstick all over him. He had reluctantly pulled away and headed for the bathroom. It was only as he was coming back draped in a towel, that his communicator had suddenly begun to sound.

Thérèse could tell immediately who it was and what was likely to happen next.

'I won't be long,' he had said, scrambling into his clothes and allowing her to tie his bowtie as he adjusted his holster before putting on his jacket. 'I'll meet you at the Club, alright?' She had nodded, trying not to let him see her disappointment and frustration.

She could hear voices in the hallway as Illya left, her sister's familiar sharp tones and Napoleon's deeper, richer ones, and then, someone else.

'It seems the old man has let you down again, my dear. Will I do?' Thérèse smiled as Vaz Fernandez stepped forward out of the gloom of the summer evening.

She took his arm and walked out of the door, Napoleon seeing to the alarms before joining them in the cab. Vaz's infective enthusiasm at last forced her to forget the disappointment of her husband's absence, and the rest of the time was passed quite happily, mainly with UNCLE gossip and talk about her work at the Steinhardt School.

The Club was set at the end of a long drive, in magnificent grounds with access to the beach from its wide terraced gardens. The party had already started, a large open canopy erected on the top terrace, under which a band were playing smooth swing music to which a large number of people swayed in front of them. Inside the wide open French doors of the club, a series of large tables had been spread with a variety of rather sophisticated looking canapés and other food; a team of waiters and waitresses flooded out, endeavouring to tempt those who sat in small tables round the edge of the dance floor.

Dusk was taking hold of the day as Napoleon and the other three reached the terrace. Solo couldn't help scanning the crowd, even though he felt pretty relaxed and ready to enjoy himself. He could see the Waverlys across the other side of the dance floor chatting to a tall man in military uniform who was unmistakeably Darryl's uncle. It was easy to spot both the Section Three guys and the Army MPs on duty, the rest of the party being made up of quite a few young Section Two and Three guys and a good number of girls invited from various Sections in UNCLE. Darryl himself, locked arm in arm with his fiancée, a rather attractive, but shy American girl from translation, looked as if he was heading in their direction.

'Welcome y'all,' Darryl shouted in booming tones over the latest number, a rather good rendition of 'Strangers in the Night' by the male vocalist with the band. 'Julie and I are sure glad you could come, aren't we Julie?' Thérèse was mildly amused by the difference in height between the couple; like herself, Julie was petite in height and size, while Darryl's bulk even towered over Napoleon, never mind the more diminutive Indian by her side.

Thérèse could see that Darryl was looking for Illya and decided to put him out of his misery.

'He'll be along soon,' she murmured, smiling up at him and seeing him nod as if understanding their mutual disappointment at the Russian's absence.

Thérèse looked at her watch, wondering just how long that absence might be. Napoleon had already sorted out a table far enough from the band to be able to have a conversation without shouting, and had signalled to the waiter for some drinks. Thérèse loved going anywhere with him, particularly these sorts of occasions; he seemed to be able to orchestrate things so brilliantly; the table, the drinks, whatever was necessary for a lovely evening. But without Illya, she felt the vital piece in the jigsaw of their evening was not in place.

Vaz seemed to have been able to read her mind, for, before she could sink morosely down at the table, he had lured her onto the dance floor and begun to swing her round to strains of 'Night and Day' from the band. She looked down at the bronze coloured sandals she had chosen because they were great for dancing, and, smiling widely, plunged amongst the other dancers with her partner.

'Christ!' Surprisingly Josefina didn't swear that often, preferring to use a variety of scouse expressions which Napoleon was now deeply familiar with. It was only when something particularly important or serious happened that the appropriate words were used.

'Excuse me?' Napoleon said, looking in the direction his wife was now staring in.

'See that man there. No, divvy, not him; there, in the uniform, him there, see?' Napoleon stared at another tall, but younger man in army dress uniform, chatting to Waverly and his wife, his hand loosely holding that of a rather solid looking girl with fairish hair set in a rather upswept style, a small bow affixed at the back of the solid, lacquered strands.

'You know him?' Napoleon asked, wondering if he should contact the office to see where the Russian was. Jo set her lips in an expression Napoleon knew well, and which spoke volumes.

'That no-mark chased after our Tess for over a year when she was at Oxford, until ma and pa came over and persuaded him that his career prospects might be affected if he married a, let me think what his dad said . . .. Oh yes, 'one of those feminist types whose mother was a commie fighter in the Spanish Civil War'.' Napoleon tried not to smile at the description, which seemed to fit his own wife so much more than her sister.

'I know what you're thinking, lover, but Tess was very, well let's say, outspoken then. He thought because he was a Rhodes Scholar, Heisman Trophy winner and West Point army cadet of the century, that she would just swoon all over him and become Mrs Michael Dawkins of Des Moines, Iowa, or wherever they live, but she hates all that crap, and besides, after the row with mom and dad, that was it,' she said, staring at the figures across the dance floor. 'She always felt Michael had given in to the pressure of all those generations of military folk.'

'Has she noticed him, do you think?' Napoleon asked, his gaze moving from Thérèse to Michael Dawkins, and then back again.

'I don't think so, and more important, I don't think he's seen her yet. And then of course, there's his dad and mom,' Jo added in a fake American accent, making a wry face at Napoleon.

'And, of course, if he ever gets here, there's _her_ husband,' Napoleon replied.

'And when will you be deployed to South East Asia, Michael?' Waverly enquired, sitting down gratefully and helping himself to one of the canapés from the dish on the table in front of him.

'Probably in September or October, sir, if I pass the medical. I'm instructing at West Point presently, awaiting orders,' Dawkins replied, smiling at the elderly looking man next to him.

'You must be very proud of your son, Brigadier,' Waverly continued, rather hoping that someone might come along and relieve him and Dorothy of the rather tedious company of Brigadier Dawkins and his family.

'I am, sir,' Eugene Dawkins replied, giving a rather self-satisfied smile in his wife's direction. 'And of course we're very excited by the prospect of Michael and Marilyn's engagement.' Marilyn giggled slightly, gazing up into her fiancé's eyes as he gazed across the dance floor.

'What's wrong, Mikey,' she whispered, noticing his hand had clenched hers tightly and that his face had become set and rather flushed.

'Nothing. It's nothing, I … I just need to speak to Darryl for a moment, OK?' Without waiting for a reply, he set off round the edge of the dance floor, heading in Darryl's direction.

Darryl's attempt to lure Julie onto the dance floor was thwarted by the sudden appearance of his cousin in front of him.

'Hey, Mike, having a good time?' he said cheerfully, at the same time noting the rather intense expression on his cousin's face.

'Yeah, great. Say, Darryl, that girl over there in the black dress and the gold shoes, um, is the guy her … boyfriend?' Darryl squinted in the direction Michael was indicating.

'Jesus, no! She's married to another guy at UNCLE, but he's not here yet,' Darryl said, noticing the shocked reaction to his last statement. 'Why, do you know her?'

'Hell no. I just wondered, that's all. She's a very attractive girl. Married, you say? Are you sure?'

Darryl frowned. For someone who claimed he didn't know Tess, and who was about to be married himself, he was sure making a big fuss about her being married. He sighed. No doubt there would be endless talk in the family about communist infiltration again if the Dawkins, father or son, actually got to meet Kuryakin.

'Sure I'm sure. Not only married, they've got a zillion children. Well, five children, that's if you don't count . . . well, five anyway,' Darryl blundered on.

'Five!' Michael said hoarsely. 'Are you sure? Mind you she always said . . .' His voice trailed away, as if he suddenly remembered that he didn't really know her. He walked away, conscious of his cousin's stare, noticing that she had now left the dance floor and was walking towards the beach, where small groups of party goers were splashing in and out of the calm waves lapping the shore in the darkness.

'God, Illya, don't do that!' Jo said, as she looked up and stared into the familiar face of the Russian, now lounging in the seat facing her.

'Sorry. I was just trying to slip in unnoticed,' he said, already looking round for Thérèse amongst the still unflagging dancers on the dance floor. Napoleon smirked slightly, having noticed the Russian coming up the side of the building as he continued to chat to his wife about the Dawkins family. Vaz appeared off the dance floor, sliding into the seat the other side of Jo and helping himself to a drink from the jug of Margarita cocktail and a canapé from the dish on the table.

'Ah, Kuryakin old man, so glad you could make it,' he said. 'The little woman has just gone for a stroll on the beach. It looked as if that army chappie cousin of Darryl's was following her.'

Napoleon and Jo exchanged glances, but not before Illya had spotted them.

'Something wrong, Napoleon?' he ventured, sipping the Margarita Napoleon had gently pushed towards him.

'Er, not entirely, although you may be interested to know what Jo's just been telling me about Darryl's cousin and Tess.'

'Perhaps it's better coming from her,' Jo said, looking fiercely towards Napoleon. 'Look, I'll tell you what I know, as long as you promise not to go blundering down there making a fuss,' she said, putting down her glass.

'I never blunder anywhere,' Illya said evenly, finishing his drink and turning towards her, the look in his eyes instantly readable, at least by his partner.

After Jo had spoken, a sort of hiatus between them was eventually broken by the scraping back of chairs as Fernando and Frankie swung themselves down at the table.

'Good evening, folks,' Fernando beamed in his usual laid-back fashion, raising his eyebrows at Vaz and smiling at the others. Frankie, wearing a pink dress that made Illya wish he had his dark glasses with him, leaned over and gave him a warm kiss before almost yelling 'Hiya Mr Solo, Jo!' in her usual manner.

'Where've you two been?' Illya said, more sharply than he intended to, inviting a rather worried look from Napoleon's direction.

'Um, we stopped off on the way… well, we got here as quick as we could,' Fernando replied, looking round. 'Why, did we miss anything?'

'Only a little reunion of the class of '60,' Napoleon said, watching Michael Dawkins heading towards the beach, as the male vocalist with the band started up again with a very passable cover of 'Fly me to the moon'.' Illya suddenly stood up and walked off, melting into the crowd before Napoleon could intervene.

'Why did you insist he knew?' Jo said brusquely, leaning towards him. 'Are you going to go after him?' Napoleon shook his head, still looking towards the beach.

'I think he can deal with it without me holding his hand,' he said.

Thérèse slipped off her sandals and felt the soft sand squeeze between her wriggling toes as she wandered towards the water's edge. She felt a hand on her shoulder and swung round joyfully, her smile frozen as she stared into a wholly unexpected face.

'Hello Tess,' Michael said rather stiffly. Close to her, he was momentarily stunned by her beauty, as if he could have forgotten the astonishing tones of her hair and her exquisite almond shaped, golden brown eyes. Her shock at seeing him was palpable, he could see it in the set of her mouth and in the slight tremor of her body as she stared up at him.

'Michael, I… I thought you were . . .' her voice trailed off, Dawkins acutely aware of her breasts rising and falling as she fought for the words to express how she felt.

'I'm sorry if I startled you. Darryl told me that you were . . .'

'Married?' Thérèse could feel her heart beginning to slow slightly as she fought to regain control of her feelings. 'Yes, I don't know why you should be so surprised, Michael.'

'You wouldn't marry me,' he replied savagely, even though I would have walked through fire for you, Tess.' Thérèse sighed and shook her head.

'That was a minor lifetime ago, Michael. Besides, I can't believe you've forgotten that, fire or no fire, you choose the path your parents expected you to follow, remember?' His face hardened slightly as he stepped closer, Thérèse aware of his hand now gripping the top of her arm tightly as he stared at her.

'You were so damned independent Tess; all that stuff about having your own life and a career, and then, goddamit, I find that you're married to some suit from UNCLE! And where's your damn independent career woman life now, since you took up being a full-time mom and homemaker? Why couldn't you come back home and marry me, for God's sake?' She could feel the pressure on her arm becoming unbearable, his face torn between grief and rage at seeing her.

'Stop it, Michael, you're hurting me,' she hissed, wrenching her arm away from him. 'For your information, I do have a career, and my husband is not a 'suit' as you so rudely suggested, in fact he's . . .'

'Wondering where you got to,' a familiar voice said, startling them both, and causing Dawkins to release her into Illya's arms. She laid there for a few moments, Illya aware of her heart beating against him as he stared silently at the man facing them.

'We haven't been introduced,' he said coldly, continuing his unblinking glare in Dawkins' direction.

Michael narrowed his eyes and surveyed the man who Tess had seemingly preferred to him. He was on the small side, but muscular, the slight bulge under his jacket suggesting he was armed, and therefore, like Darryl, from the enforcement section of UNCLE, Michael presumed. Something about him, the deep blue eyes and the soft beatnik style blond hair, awakened memories of a conversation he had had with his cousin about some agent he hero-worshipped and was trying to model himself on, despite the fact that the said man was a . . .

'Jesus, Tess, please don't tell me you've married a fucking red!' he exclaimed fiercely, looking straight through Illya towards her.

'Don't swear at me Michael, and don't call him that,' Thérèse replied icily, keeping as hard a grip on Illya as she could. 'Michael, this is my husband, Illya Kuryakin; Illya, Major Michael Dawkins.'

xxxxxx

'Don't turn away from me. Illya. Turn round; we don't do this, especially just before you go away.' He remained motionless, his back unmoving, a living barrier between them.

They had spent the rest of the evening hardly speaking to each other, Thérèse trying too hard to enjoy the party, and Illya not trying at all. He seemed unaware of the effect of his mood on the others in their group, and it came as a relief when they all piled into the cab for the return journey. Thérèse had felt so tired, it was almost tempting to allow him to continue his mood of dark, brooding silence, but when it continued even into the bedroom, she had pursed her lips and decided enough was enough.

'Why is he being like this?' she had whispered earlier to Napoleon as they walked up the drive to pick up the cabs. 'He's such a . . .'

'Hypocrite? Blockhead?' Napoleon murmured, smiling at her. He put his arm round her shoulders companionably, glancing ahead at the retreating form of his partner, already getting into one of the waiting cabs. He had shaken his head a little, then looked at her. 'Well, far be it from me to tell you what to do with him, but I usually find it's a choice between allowing him space to work it out for himself, or, if time is short, getting my boot on his neck and forcing him to see sense.'

'Um, the second choice might be a little difficult,' she had said, kicking the gravel under her feet. 'I just… well I find it maddening when he's expected me to…'

'Quite,' Napoleon replied. 'But, even if you didn't know it before, I'm sure you know now that he's not the most straightforward guy in the world. Seeing you with Michael Dawkins, well let's say it probably released a few of those little doubts he has about himself from time to time, if you get my drift.'

'What doubts?' she had said rather louder than she intended.

'Oh the doubt that perhaps by marrying him you've had to shoulder more than your fair share of, let's say, suffering; suffering he hasn't been able to protect you from, however much he tried.' She had stopped and looked into his calm face, suddenly glimpsing the qualities which her husband valued so much.

'But the idiot knows that I love him to distraction, doesn't he?' she had said.

'Definitely. That's the problem,' he had murmured.

The room at the back of the house was filled with moonlight from the wide French windows. Thérèse stared at the garden stretching away into the darkness, the terrace littered with odd toys and play equipment discarded by the children. She picked up her favourite acoustic guitar, sat on the simple Shaker chair by the window and began to play quietly.

_I had a king._ It was a song from the album he'd bought her only the day before. She loved its poetic, lyrical sound, its sad, regretful story.

_You know my thoughts don't fit the man. They never can. They never can._

She wasn't aware of him coming into the room until she had finished and had started to cry, her tears dropping gently onto the instrument, making a tiny rivulet across the wood. He took it from her, and, lifting her up, enfolded her in his arms, laying his head gently on her shoulders.

'I'm so sorry. I behaved like a… jealous teenager. I can't think what came over me,' he said in hoarse gasps, holding her tightly as he breathed in the thick, soft perfumed smell of her hair. He guided her towards the sofa, the old leather allowing them to sink into each other's arms and remain there silently for a while.

'Is the song about me?' he said quietly. 'I wouldn't blame you if it was.' Thérèse sniffed slightly and smiled, looking into the earnest eyes searching her face.

'No; it's not about you. It's about him. I didn't think about it when I first played it, but now… it seems so terribly apt.' There was another, longer silence, before Thérèse continued, 'Do you want me to tell you about him? I will, if you promise me one thing.'

'And what's that?'

'That, in the words of the song, you remember that, from now on in this marriage, there's no-one to blame, least of all you, for whatever we both bring into it. You understand, _amado_?' He nodded silently, then sat back into the corner, Thérèse lying across his chest with her hand lightly touching his neck and hair.

'I had actually graduated by the time he arrived; my tutor had persuaded me to accept a part-time lecturing post in the Art History department while I started my PhD, with the expectation that I would stay on full-time eventually. I loved it at Oxford, but I'd started to study photography as an undergraduate, and over the summer vac I'd sort of decided that I would give the PhD a break after a year and use my photography career to see the world. I already had the offer of some work for Reuters and some other news agencies, and I was building up my portfolio. Meeting someone, having a steady relationship, let alone marriage, was the last thing on my mind.

'I met Michael at a party at Somerville, you know, my college? I suppose he was fascinating in a way; after all, I'd not met many Americans, let alone handsome Rhodes Scholars, so I was flattered when he seemed interested. He had a host of girls after him, I remember; you know, the types who were desperate to make a good marriage before they came down from University.' She sighed, thinking of that night, the way Michael's size physically dominated the space they were in and had felt to her then, and still felt, as if it was stifling her.

'He was, I suppose, a symbol of everything I despised at the time; the product of a military family and a military school, with opinions to match; physically he felt just overpowering, all that muscle; that chiselled face and that horrible crew cut. But of course, he was a lot more than just a military pin-up with no brains; he'd won the scholarship for his academic attainments as much as for his leadership and sports achievements.'

'What was his field?' Illya asked softly.

'Oh, Engineering, I think. Yes, he was always going on about its military value,' Thérèse replied, raising her eyes. 'I think he saw me as a challenge, a girl unlike anyone he'd met before, and to begin with it was fun for both of us, I suppose. We were playing a game of who could shock the other one more.'

'And who did?'

'Well, probably me, I think, because pretty soon I realised that he was so much more serious about the relationship than I was.'

'Oh.' Illya closed his eyes for a moment. An image of Marie-Laure filled his mind. He could hear her sweet tones, talking about their life together as she saw it, as they lay in her bed together, his eyes closed then too, thinking of other things.

'It was stimulating in a way; I had to justify my political views, he had to justify his; and we argued about other things too. He had a very traditional view of marriage and the role of women within it. Not that it didn't stop him from…

'Wanting to have sex with you?'

'Um, crudely put, Romeo, but yes, he wanted it to go further.'

'And you didn't?' Thérèse sat up slightly until she was looking directly at Illya, their faces both shadowed in the moonlight.

'You have to understand what it was like then, even though it's only, what, less than ten years ago. I came from a traditional Catholic background, the product of Irish and Mallorcan Catholic parents. You know my mother, a scary version of Josefina. Would you want to come home from University and tell her you were pregnant?' Illya smiled, his nose crinkling slightly, making it hard for Thérèse to concentrate.

'Yes, it was hard enough telling her you were pregnant when I had just married you.'

'Exactly. And what is more, my parents found Michael's attitudes very hard to stomach, and that was before his parents entered the fray.' Thérèse stopped smiling, the remembrance of the meeting even after all those years filling her with rage.

She had forced herself to approach them at Darryl's party, and the civilities had been entered into.

'We hear that you're married now, to an UNCLE agent, and living here in New York,' Michael's father had begun, as if those facts were somehow unbelievable when applied to the woman standing in front of him.

'Mr Kuryakin is one of our finest operatives,' Waverly interrupted from the table, his wife nodding in agreement and smiling encouragingly at Thérèse. She knew immediately what turn the conversation would take, and was determined to embrace Alexander Waverly at the earliest opportunity for arguing the merits of employing a Russian in his organisation.

'So I presume the meeting didn't go well?' Illya said, breaking her thoughts. 'I mean the meeting at Oxford?'

'You could say that. I was a lot more headstrong in those days, I said what I thought. I didn't really have such extreme views, but I found Michael's parents so crushingly traditional, that it brought out the worst in me. Of course, his dad did most of the talking; Mrs Dawkins sat there like a scared rabbit, or when she did speak, it was just to mirror her husband's cave-man attitudes. I found him an appalling right-wing misogynist bigot, and he found me an appalling left-wing, pacifist women's libber. I don't think either attitude was right, but neither of us was prepared to give way, and that was that.'

Illya gave her a long look from under his eyelashes. 'Hmm. It must have been a truly interesting meeting, for the onlooker, that is.' She put her head closer, brushing his lips with hers.

'It was truly awful, more like. I didn't see Michael for a little while after that, and then he rang and asked to see me. Unbelievably, he asked me to marry him and come back to the States. After all that, he still didn't get it. He was sure that once we 'settled', as he said, everything would fall into place. It was obvious then that he had decided to follow the family line, and he seriously thought that I could be happy as an army wife on some base somewhere waiting for him to come home. God, the sheer ego of the man was astounding.'

'And then you go and marry a former military officer, give up your career and stay home to look after him and his many children,' Illya murmured. She took hold of his chin and looked at him sharply.

'You are nothing like him, and I haven't given up my career. I always wanted children but not then, and like you, lover, I am trying to combine two careers in one, and I thought you were supporting me.' Illya pulled himself up slightly, gazing at Thérèse in the darkness of the room.

'So was that it?' he asked eventually.

'More or less. I left Oxford at the end of that year and started to work overseas. I didn't come back to England much for a few months, and then, as you know, I got the National Geographic job and went to live with sis.' She frowned slightly. 'Just before we met, a friend of mine from Oxford got in touch with me. She told me that he had gone out to Vietnam on his second tour of duty and got shot up defending some strategically important place. I wasn't surprised; Michael always had to be trying to achieve something heroic. I suppose he'll be aching to get out there again as soon as he can.'

'He may want to,' Illya said, 'but that may not be possible.' Thérèse sat up, swinging her leg over Illya and sitting astride him.

'What do you mean?' Illya sighed and yawned a little.

'I mean that, according to Napoleon, his injuries appear to be sufficiently serious to preclude him from the sort of active service he desires. Apparently, they want him to spearhead some sort of recruitment drive centred on my favourite Army office downtown, as well as continuing up at West Point. So, my little communist sympathiser, we may not have seen the last of your former admirer.'

'Great,' sighed Thérèse. 'I can tell you one thing. If he does fail his medical, I can't see the alternative job working. I'd say that there's every danger of him becoming a bit bitter and twisted if he can't find some other challenge in his life.'

'You think he may leave the Army?'

'Possibly, but the question is, what is he going to do then?'

Illya pulled her down onto him and kissed her, before rolling her off and standing up.

'Can we go back to bed now?' he said, taking her hand. 'Otherwise my mother will be knocking on the door tomorrow with the tribe and we'll still be fast asleep.'

'Well, we _may_ be,' Thérèse said, raising her eyebrows a little.

The bed felt cold and slightly clammy when they climbed in.

'What I find so difficult is how an intelligent man like Dawkins can have such irrational political opinions,' Illya murmured into Tess's ear. 'I get rather tired of hearing variations on a theme of 'you can't trust a Russian' sometimes.' He felt Tess stroking the hair on his chest and then following it with her lips and gave a deep sigh. 'Perhaps I should admit defeat and just change my name to something more palatable to the American psyche,' he muttered. 'How about, let's see . . Bill Cury.'

He felt her snort into his chest and then begin to shake with suppressed laughter.

'Bill what?'

'Bill Cury. You know, the first part of my old name, with a different spelling. Of course we'd have to westernise the children's names as well, and then I'd have to persuade my mother . . .'

'Don't be so absolutely ridiculous. I have no intention of changing my name and certainly not of calling you Bi…' but the thought was obviously too much and she collapsed into a paroxysm of laughter. After a few minutes, she stopped, raising herself up and looking at him properly.

'You're not serious?' She could see his face in the dawning light, his eyes wide and fixed, no sign of a smile on his face.

Suddenly, his eyes crinkled slightly and he grinned.

'Well I wouldn't have to endure Napoleon calling me Ill-ya all the time, I suppose,' he laughed. Thérèse kissed him and then rolled over.

'Go to sleep . . . . Bill,' she murmured

CHAPTER 4

Napoleon waited patiently by the black cab as the cabbie pulled his luggage from the boot and deposited it on the pavement outside Claridge's. It was hard not to allow a smirk to develop at the thought of his partner and where he might be sleeping the same night. Almost as effortlessly as the Russian, a top-hatted Head Porter appeared and carried his bags into the glorious art-deco entrance hall of the old hotel.

He had enjoyed meals in this place before, but normally, the UNCLE finance department baulked at anything bordering on the luxury now awaiting him at the top of the wide, curving staircase.

'Did you have a pleasant flight, sir?' the slightly unctuous receptionist enquired, flicking his fingers imperceptibly to summon another hotel employee.

'Absolutely fine,' Napoleon replied, warming to the Californian billionaire role he had been cast in. He had played these types of men before, but this time, this particular man was to be less of the flashy, obviously wealthy variety, and more of the serious, astute, art-collector strain.

'Would you mind signing your name in the book, sir?' He drew out a rather beautiful fountain pen, the receptionist recognising its quality with a slight flutter of his eyelashes, and signed his name. _Marshall Zweigart. Valencia, California_.

'Take Mr Zweigart's luggage to Suite 216, please. I've reserved a table for two for dinner tonight, sir, as you requested.' Solo nodded slightly.

'Thanks.'

Suite 216 was as lovely as he had imagined it, the art deco design of the dining room echoed again in the splendid curves of the room and the lovely black and chrome fittings of the bathroom. Napoleon tipped the porter and unpacked, waiting until he had returned with afternoon tea on a tray, before pulling out his communicator.

'Open Channel D. Illya?' There was a slight pause, only to be expected, he supposed. He calculated that the Russian must have reached Jerusalem by now, seeing that his plane left so early in the morning.

'Napoleon. I presume you are now ensconced somewhere in the lap of luxury?' Solo grinned.

'Got it in a nutshell, comrade. I've always wanted to stay here; the quiet luxury, the fine dining . . .'

'Yes, I've been to Claridge's, Napoleon, as you well remember, so you can spare me the blow by blow description. Have you made contact yet?' Napoleon smiled at the communicator. As usual, Kuryakin was fully focused on the task in hand.

'Er, yes, the smoke signals which were put out regarding my desperate desire to augment my art collection at any price, together with my extreme right-wing views, seem to have got through to the right quarters. I have a dinner date this evening with none other than Ms Luft herself. It seems that in the art world, bankers attract, if you get my point.' He heard a slight sniff the other end.

'Good. I have every confidence in your ability to bamboozle Miss Luft with your banker act, but what about your 'famous art collector' role? Was Tess helpful?'

Napoleon had dropped in on the Kuryakins the day after the party. The usual uproar of a Saturday morning assaulted his ears as Pascale opened the door to him, holding back a bellowing Tasiya, Chi-Chi in her hands.

'I think she's trying to show you that it's mended, Uncle Napoleon,' Pascale said seriously, gazing at him in an uncannily familiar way through her new glasses. Napoleon knelt down and picked up the animated little girl, who managed to bonk him on the head with the toy as they headed towards more noise on the floor below.

He felt the firm grasp of two sets of arms on his legs before Pascale patiently unwound Valya and Micha from him and put them in their high chairs by the side of the table.

'Tasiya, be gentle with Uncle Napoleon, please,' Thérèse said, taking Chi-Chi and then Tasiya, and seating her at the table with her brothers.

'The boys are all upstairs modelling,' Thérèse said, a slight smirk coming to her face as she said the words.

'Dresses?' Napoleon asked, rubbing his head and marvelling at the calmness with which she was undertaking what seemed like a dozen different tasks at the same time.

'_Non, Oncle!_' scolded Pascale, her face replicating the Russian's when Napoleon had said or done something which he considered particularly absurd. 'They are making all those aeroplanes which they use for their silly war games,' she continued, folding her arms.

'Oh, of course. So where's your papa hiding in all this?'

'He's one of the modellers,' Thérèse replied.

He found them in Pablo's room, round a small table, two brown heads and one blond bent over in total concentration on the task in front of them.

'Careful, make sure the propeller is able to turn independently… good.'

'Oh yes, Pablo my man, that is one swell plane!' Napoleon fought the temptation to put his fingers in his ears as a round of machine gun fire burst out of Marv's mouth.

'Do come in Napoleon.' He hadn't moved his head from the position it had been as Napoleon stood in the doorway, but the Russian seemed to have a sixth sense about his partner's presence.

'Having fun, boys?' Napoleon asked. Illya sat back and put a tiny paint brush down, before carefully laying what looked like a model spitfire back on the table.

'Don't mock. You'll be doing this yourself before long,' Illya muttered, gazing at the tiny aeroplane in what Napoleon detected was a rather loving way. 'I never got the chance to do this sort of thing before,' he added. 'Perhaps I saw too many of the real versions.'

'Well, I have to say, that while I admire the workmanship of your Supermarine Spitfire, comrade, I think that Pablo's Messerschmitt Bf 109F there has got the edge.'

'Ah, but you have to admit, _mein freund_, that the P51H Mustang of Marv's over there had by far the most endurance; what was it, Marv?'

'8.7 hours, Mr Kuryakin, as against about an hour for the other two. Swell plane; swell _American_ plane, Mr Solo,' Marv said, with a knowing look at Napoleon.

'Absolutely, Marv, we Americans need to stick together against these Europeans.'

'Don't you start. And why exactly are you here, Napoleon?' Illya got up from the table and rubbed his fingers together. He was wearing a thin white t-shirt with 'I am an honorary scouser' written on it, and a pair of jeans which turned out to have been cut off above the knee when he stood up. Napoleon grimaced, and followed him out of the room and into the study they had made from Tess's former darkroom, the sounds of World War II beginning all over again behind them.

The skylight in the room had been uncovered, and it was now filled with translucent light, the window pushed up to let in the hot New York sun through the soft blind. There were bookshelves lining both of the long walls, it being immediately obvious whose books were whose. On the right, in perfect order, racks of scientific magazines stood to attention, accompanied by a large selection of books in a number of languages, largely connected with physics, although Napoleon noticed Illya had quite a collection of music related literature as well. The other side was less ordered, and contained Tess' collection of mainly Art History books, but also a wide selection of photography and other creative works. Across the top of some of the books were postcards and other pictures and prints, as well as pictures of Illya and the children. And as he stood in the doorway he noticed, above the desk at the end of the room, the Chagall picture.

'So this is where you two hide out at the end of the day, is it?' he said, noting the tiny sofa next to the desk at the end of one of the bookcases.

'Each to his own, Napoleon. And no, we don't spend every evening here, but it's good to have somewhere to go and think occasionally,' Illya replied, 'and Tess needs somewhere to work if she's to finish her Thesis.' He gazed at the picture and then turned round.

'I presume you've come to ask her about that,' he said. Napoleon sat down on the sofa and picked up a book next to him.

'I need at least a working knowledge of art if I'm to pull this art collector role off,' he began. 'But if you don't want her involved I'll… I'll find somebody else.' Illya sighed.

'It's not up to me. If she wants to help you, that's fine. I just don't want her drawn into another mission, you understand. I'll go and take over downstairs and you two can chat.'

In the end, Thérèse had been very helpful indeed. She didn't ask many questions about the mission, just suggested a plausible cover he might claim, and some basic information about certain artists and movements that would make him sound as if he knew something about what he wanted to buy.

'You don't have to be an expert, and you don't have to say you've got a world famous collection, but you will have to be clear about what you are looking to buy and how much you're prepared to spend,' she said, looking at the picture.

As they were going out, she grasped his arm.

'Everything's OK now, by the way. Um, Napoleon, he hasn't said anything to you about changing his name, has he?' Napoleon stared at her.

'No, never. Why?'

He ran down the stairs to the kitchen to say goodbye.

'I wouldn't come in unless you have a strong stomach,' he heard Kuryakin say before he had even reached the door. A heady aroma hit his nostrils as he heard Tasiya shouting 'poop, poop' very loudly from her potty by the window. The Russian was kneeling on the floor wrestling with Valya's legs as he attempted to put on a clean nappy, the other twin Misha, standing just behind him, his own nappy looking suspiciously heavy and unmistakeably smelly.

'Mm. Have you thought of refining this as a secret weapon against our Thrushie friends?' Napoleon enquired, keeping well up-wind of Tasiya, who had just stood up holding her dress up and continuing to shout 'poop, poop' at the top of her voice.

'I'll see you later,' Napoleon offered from the door.

'Yes, thank you so much for your help, Napoleon.'

'That's OK, Bill,' Napoleon replied, and shut the door before the thud of a nappy could be heard hitting the other side.

'So, have you met your contact?'

'Tomorrow morning. I'm staying at a considerably simpler hotel than Claridge's, and hopefully, if the shower works, I'm going to get cleaned up and then go out for something to eat. I'll be travelling to Haifa with David, and then to the Kibbutz, so I'll be in touch then.'

'OK. I'll let you know if anything urgent transpires from my meeting with Miss Luft. Enjoy your gefilte fish. Solo out.'

Napoleon replaced the receiver and lay on the bed, glancing at his watch. He had three hours before Fraulein Luft would hopefully try to persuade him to part with a great deal of his money for what he hoped was a work of art with an extremely dubious provenance and, with any luck, invite him into the illustrious company of the organisation known as the Adler Society. He closed his eyes and fell instantly asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 5

The shower head was enormous, matched only by the force of the waterfall cascading over Napoleon's head. He tilted his neck back and let it gush over his face, then turning if off, stepped out onto the cool marble floor.

He had sent his suits to be pressed and they were there waiting for him in the bedroom, almost vying with each other for his attention. He had shaved as closely as he dared without hurting himself and he rubbed his chin as he flicked through his ties and pulled out the one best fitted for the occasion.

The file on Cecilia Luft was in his case, and pulling it out, he lay out the various sheets on the small desk in front of the window while he continued dressing. The same image he had gazed at with Illya lay on top; the awful glasses spoiling what he guessed would be an attractive face beneath them. Undoubtedly, she was the link between the Adler Society and whatever the vaults of her bank might contain.

He had memorised the details of his new identity, and in particular the extreme attitudes and connections that the researchers in Section Five had so meticulously constructed for him. In order to get past the door on Robert Adam Street, his background was going to have to be watertight, and if the Adler Society was of the rather sinister political persuasion that Aaronheim thought it was, then he was going to have to show that it was untainted by any Jewish connections.

He thought suddenly of Kuryakin's face when Konstantin Blau had been mentioned. Underneath the information on Luft was a sheet detailing all the information UNCLE possessed on the lives of the three Blau brothers. It was very likely from the brief overview of Konstantin Blau's life in front of him, that the man had been in Kiev at the same time as the Kuryakins, a period Illya discussed very rarely and Solo never pushed his partner to reveal; but perhaps Illya wasn't the right Kuryakin to ask. He made a mental note to at least suggest to the Russian that his mother might be a useful source of information if he was prepared to ask her.

He checked his watch and glanced at himself in the full-length mirror on the inside of the wardrobe. He had chosen a suit which was expensive looking but fairly restrained, with a tie which didn't shout out at anybody. He ran his comb through his hair once again, and headed downstairs.

He saw her at once, waiting in the reception area, sitting rather upright among the understated opulence of the casual sofas and chairs. It was obvious that the staff were aware of their meeting, a waiter hovering in the background, ready to be of assistance.

'Fraulein Luft'. He came forward and rather formally shook her hand.

'_Sie sprechen Deutsch_?' She looked surprised; he supposed she had assumed that Americans just didn't speak foreign languages, and certainly not as well as his near fluent and accentless German suggested. They continued in German, which seemed to please her, and ensured that they would probably not be understood by most of the hotel staff.

Up close, Napoleon's initial assessment of her was confirmed. Without the glasses, he was sure she would be infinitely more attractive. He tried not to think of his partner's matching pair, now, according to Tess, dispatched, literally, to the dustbin of history. He signalled to the waiter lurking near the bar and ordered two vodka martinis, hoping that she wasn't as straight-laced in the drinking department as she appeared to look in other areas.

Considering they were about to have dinner, she looked more as if she was about to attend a board meeting of the bank. She was wearing a rather formal suit of stiff grey material, only relieved by a rather beautiful jewelled broach on the lapel of the jacket. Her hair was very dark, held back in a kind of bun at the nape of her neck which Napoleon usually prided himself on being able to release fairly easily when the time came.

The thought of probably having to seduce her made him frown slightly as he surveyed her across the table. This part of his job, as he thought of it, had always been effortless, made easier by his natural admiration of any woman who at least had the potential to be attractive, and his absolute confidence in his own powers of seduction. When he had fallen in love with Josefina, his world had shifted; his appreciation of women had not dimmed, but somehow, the pursuit of them, the need to pursue them had lost some of the power and fascination it had had before. Now, it felt less pleasurable, and so many women seemed rather dull compared to his shining, beautiful wife. Nevertheless, as Illya had reminded him, it was essential that he succeed in this part of the mission, whatever the cost.

As they moved into the dining room, he could feel her appraising him, the eyes behind the hideous glasses already coming to a decision. Although it was busy, they were placed in a corner away from others, inviting confidence.

'I hope you didn't mind me representing Herr Blau this evening, Herr Zweigart' she began. 'I'm afraid that he is in Paris until tomorrow evening, on business you understand'.

'Oh I understand, Fraulein Luft; and please, call me Marshall'. She gave a little nod, then, as an afterthought it appeared, said 'Cecilia. My name is Cecilia'. Napoleon smiled.

'Cecilia. A lovely name. The patron saint of music, if I remember. Do you enjoy music, Cecilia?' She pursed her lips a little and took a sip of wine.

'I don't have a great deal of time to listen, but I go to the Opera with Cyrus and Ottilie when I'm in London. We went to a performance of Tristan last week at Covent Garden. Do you like Wagner, Marshall?'

Napoleon sighed inwardly, wishing he'd listened more carefully to Kuryakin's conversation with some music nerd from Section Eight last week about the Ring Cycle. Dredging up the Russian's words, he said, 'Yes, I have the Solti recording of the Ring Cycle; probably one of the highest points in the history of music recording, don't you think?' She gave him a long look, Napoleon praying that she wouldn't turn out to be more of an expert than he was, though that wouldn't be difficult. Luckily, she seemed impressed, and let the subject drop.

He had escaped further interrogation about his musical tastes, but other areas of his life were subject to far greater scrutiny. Someone had done some fairly extensive and very thorough research into his background, which Miss Luft had seemingly committed to memory. With ruthless efficiency, she questioned him about his wealth, his political views and his family background and present commitments. Interestingly, he thought, as she picked her way through his life, she failed to mention anything about his wish to buy paintings. Solo concluded that unless he passed this test, he wouldn't even get near Blau, never mind the Adler Society.

As they lingered over their coffees, Napoleon decided that he had had enough interrogation for one evening. He rose to his feet, and, taking her hand, pulled her up gently to her feet.

'I don't know about you' he said, switching to a rather more relaxed sounding Californian English, 'but I'd quite like to continue this discussion in a more private place'. Afterwards, he had to admit that it had been a slight gamble, but as with a good many of his gambles with women, it seemed to pay off. She blinked at him a little, then picking up her handbag with her other hand, followed him out of the restaurant.

He had left the bedroom with the bed turned down and the lights dimmed, as ever confident of his plan being fulfilled. Inside the bedroom, he presumed she might turn into someone rather more passive than the competent businesswoman he had dined with earlier in the evening. If he thought that, then he was destined to be disappointed.

She surveyed the room in a professional manner, before carefully removing her suit, locating a robe in the bathroom and, to Napoleon's surprise, hanging her clothes in the wardrobe, along with her handbag and coat. He had managed to remove his gun and hide it under the mattress before she returned from the bathroom, but otherwise, he remained fully dressed, apart from his shoes, which he'd kicked off as he had hidden the gun.

'Come here' she said. Napoleon hesitated for a few moments before stepping forward. If he thought he was adept at undressing a potential lover, he was merely an apprentice compared to this woman. Within seconds it seemed he had been stripped of his clothes and pushed on to the bed, Cecilia rapidly positioning herself astride him. Coming round from the shock of his undressing, he suddenly noticed that her hair was now loose and that her glasses had disappeared.

Her eyes, now uncovered, were a remarkable green, which, with her almost black hair, gave her a decidedly feline appearance. He noticed her run her tongue over her lips before she plunged forward and locked him in a kiss of such force that he was momentarily struggling for breath as her head forced his back onto the soft pillows of the bed. Her hands felt as if they were simultaneously exploring several quite different parts of his body at the same time; he began to breathe more deeply, trying to regain some sort of control over her as she gripped his penis firmly and guided him into herself, her teeth now grazing his chest as she heaved and grunted away on top of him.

Solo clenched his jaw and gripping her, rolled over and on top of her, bringing his knees up until she lay under him and he could see her eyes, feral flashing eyes, glinting in the bedside lamp's glow. For a moment, their eyes locked in silent study of each other's face, until Napoleon continued on with what she had begun.

After a period of satiated silence, she sat up, dragging the pillows up behind her.

'You have exceeded my initial expectations, Herr Zweigart' she said rather huskily. Napoleon felt his lips twitch momentarily at the comment, which sounded like something his partner might say after someone in the lab had performed some experiment particularly efficiently.

'I must admit' he began, turning towards her, 'that I had no idea when we met you would turn out to be such an . . . interesting business partner.'

Cecilia snorted slightly, running her finger round his chin and across his lips.

'You have an interesting profile' she said, suddenly getting out of the bed and walking towards the wardrobe. She pulled back the door and taking out her clothes, began to dress. Napoleon watched her out of the corner of his half-closed eyes; opening her black leather handbag she drew out a small card, and walking back to the bed, placed it gently on the bedside table, before leaning over and kissing him.

'If you are serious about your art collection, _liebling_, there is a, what shall we say, 'get together' in New York soon, which you would do well to attend, Napoleon turned slightly, supporting himself on his arm.

'I'd like that' he replied, 'Yes, I'd like that very much'.

He lay back for a few moments after she'd left, reflecting on the evening, now the night. Getting out of the bed, he walked quickly towards the shower and waited until it was capable of drowning him in its force before stepping in.

Xxxxxxxxx

Illya heaved his rucksack up onto his shoulder and crossed the wide road, the intense glare of the sun making it difficult for his eyes to scan for the person he sought on the other side. He lowered the bag onto the floor in front of the broad expanse of bus station wall in front of him, and rummaged through the front pocket, drawing out a small rectangular case with a deep sigh of satisfaction. He had seen them in a shop just near to the hotel; it was really a pharmacy, but it also sold the usual selection of lotions and anti-bite creams to protect foreigners against the sun. And in addition, there was a small, but reasonably-priced selection of sunglasses. Putting on the pair with the solid black frames brought a smile to his face.

He shoved the case back in the pocket, and stood up, colliding with the body of a man practically on top of him.

'Blind as a bat without the sunglasses as usual, Kuryakin?' Illya's glare dissolved into a smile as the now familiar figure of David Kaplan materialised in front of him.

'It would help if you weren't leaning over me when I was trying to stand up' Illya replied, before Kaplan grabbed him in an immensely strong grip and began to hug the life out of him, before placing him back, slightly winded, on the pavement.

'You're looking good' he said, as they gazed at each other, before turning towards the bus entrance behind them. 'A few more muscles than the callow youth who lurked behind the test tubes in the Physics lab, eh, _boychick_?'

Illya grinned at the image of himself from what seemed like another lifetime ago. Kaplan, only two years older, seemed so much more attuned to the world then than his fellow Russian, and from the start of their friendship, had always referred to Kuryakin in this way. Illya glanced at his friend as they pushed their way through the crowd and onto the single-decker bus, slinging their bags above them while Kaplan handed him a bottle of water he had produced from a small shoulder bag he slung onto the seat. The years since they had met had broadened the other man, and he was now sporting a thick black beard, but otherwise he looked as he had done the day he had strolled into Illya's lab in search of a fellow countryman he had been reliably informed needed introducing into society.

The bus was crowded with a cross-section of Israeli society intent on surviving the hot journey between Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv as comfortably as they could. Illya noticed how young a lot of them seemed; the men casually dressed in the clothes of agricultural workers, the girls, the unmarried ones at least, with long brown hair and cotton dresses, some of them even wearing trousers denoting their probable work on the land. He scanned the eager, happy faces for anyone who seemed out of place, and not seeing anything untoward, sat back and took a long drink from his bottle, guessing what might be coming next.

'So, _boychick_, what exciting things have been happening in your life since we last met?' Kaplan began. Illya could see that he had already noticed his wedding ring, which he had left on for once, on this particular mission.

'Job-wise or otherwise?' he began, glancing elliptically at his friend, who had now settled in to what Illya knew was to be a long conversation.

'Oh I know about your job' Kaplan almost whispered, 'that's how you're here, my boy. No, my parents will kill me if I do not extract from you every detail about your _life_' he added, grinning and punching Illya gently on the shoulder.

Kaplan's parents had figured quite largely in Illya's life until they had left for Israel just before Illya had finished at Cambridge. He had been virtually adopted by them, David's mother spending many evenings discussing Illya's forebears in the vain hope of finding a female Jewish ancestor which she was certain he must have.

'You would make a fine husband to Mrs Rosen's daughter, you know, David, her father is a solicitor, good family'.

'Enough, _bubbala_, the poor boy does not want a wife, especially not that wife' David's father, a huge man physically, who Illya considered to be the finest chess player he had ever encountered apart from Napoleon, would boom from the corner of the room, where he always seemed to be consulting some text book connected with his work at Kew Gardens, caring for the Royal Horticultural Society's world famous collection of trees.

'How are your parents?' Illya interposed, hoping it would buy him time; 'and what about you, David?' David, seemingly easily distracted, related the story of his family's exodus to Israel, and their eventual settling in the Kibbutz near Haifa to which they were now headed. Their story mirrored the story of Israel itself; the post-War influx of Jewish settlers after the Holocaust, and the desire for some kind of collective living in order to use their talents to make the land productive and to find, at last, the peace and security they had yearned for.

'I run a clinic at the Kibbutz with my wife Irena' David continued, and we have Adam and Judith.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph of a rather jolly looking woman in a scarf, with two children held tight by her, gazing happily into the camera's lens. 'My parents are well, and are looking forward to seeing you immensely' he added. 'So, _boychick_, since we won't be discussing that other matter until we reach somewhere more private, are you going to tell me about yourself or do I have to ring New York and ask to speak to that partner of yours with the unusual name?'

Illya sighed, and then drew out his wallet.

'As you have already noticed my ring, you've probably realised that I'm married. That's my wife, Thérèse, and these are my children; from the top, Pablo, Pascale, Anastasiya, Valentin and Mikhail.' He could see Kaplan's eyes bulging as he scanned the photograph, and looking at it, Illya felt a sharp sense of longing enter his own heart too.

'_Mazel tov_! Your wife is a beauty and your children, well they are truly olive shoots around your table, my friend!'

'Before you ask, Pablo is adopted, and Pascale, well you remember the French woman, Marie-Laure, that I told you about?' David glanced at him and smiled. 'Marie-Laure died' Illya continued quietly, so I, I mean we adopted her too. The other three are of our own making, as it were.'

David handed the photograph back to him and sat back on the seat.

'You have a fine family, and you have done a righteous thing with the two eldest children' he said. 'But I have to say that you are the last person I thought . . .'

'That's what they all say' Illya replied wearily. 'Still, no doubt your mother will think all those evenings of training me as a putative Jewish husband must have paid off.' Kaplan gave a great roar of laughter, followed by another punch on Illya's shoulder.

'Yes, my _haimischer mensch_, we are in for a long evening, you and I.'

Xxxxxxxxx

'Illya, come in; have you arrived?'

'Of course, but I haven't got a great deal of time, Napoleon. I am due at David's parent's living quarters in a few minutes, for an evening of grilling about my family.'

'Well, you'll have plenty to talk about, comrade', Napoleon grinned into the communicator. 'Have you made contact with Aaronheim yet?'

'Give me a chance, we've been on a bus practically all day. I'm meeting him tomorrow with David. Apparently, he is very nervous; he thinks there is someone at the Kibbutz who wants the documents and him out of the way.'

'Well, be careful then; try and blend into the background if that's possible.' Illya sighed. 'It should be, seeing that there are a lot of students from all over the world here. I may have to stay a few days to earn my keep as it were. How did you get on with Miss Luft, by the way?'

Napoleon grimaced a little, then related the events of the evening to his partner.

'Their main concern was seeing if I was truly _kosher_, if you take my meaning' he said. They're obviously hyper-sensitive about anyone getting into the Society who shouldn't be there, but at the same time, they obviously want my dough and, it seems, my off-shore banking connections.'

'So, do you think you've been approved?'

'It looks like it. The delightful Miss Luft is meeting me in New York to personally escort me to a small cocktail party with a very exclusive invitation list.'

'Be careful' Illya warned rather gravely, 'if Cyrus Blau follows in the family tradition, being discovered could turn out to be very unpleasant.'

Napoleon suddenly thought of his partner's expression the day in Waverly's office they had discussed Konstantin Blau. Something about the man was making the Russian very jumpy, and he needed to get to the bottom of it before the mission went any further.

'Um, Illya . . .'

'I'm sorry Napoleon I have to go now. I'll catch up with you in New York; Kuryakin out.' Napoleon looked at the communicator again and then flicked the cap.

'Open Channel T. Oh good afternoon Billie. Can you have some research done for me by the time I return, say for Thursday? The name is Blau, Konstantin. Yes, I know we have some already, but I need to know more about his movements during the war, and in particular, the time he spent in Kiev, OK? Oh, and also, I want to know about his brother, Darius. See if they've made any progress in tracking what happened with him after the war. Thanks honey. Solo out.'

Napoleon sat in the plush armchair by the side of the desk in his room. A growing pain in his gut told him that the connection between the two Blau brothers, this Society and Miss Luft must be leading to something. And somehow, the other brother, Konstantin, still seemed important in understanding the point of what was going on at Robert Adam Street, London. He only hoped that whatever Illya could get from Orin Aaronheim would go at least part way to explain it.

xxxxxxx

The hard bed and basic furniture had a distinctly monastic feel about them, but everything necessary for living was provided, and at least there was privacy in the bedroom if not in the bathroom. Illya unpacked his few clothes, then, with a little difficulty, pulled the small wardrobe away from the wall, and taped his gun against the back of it, before shoving it back and shoving the rucksack inside. He grabbed his towel and washbag and headed for the shower room. The facilities reminded him of numerous institutions he had lived in; a line of showers, a line of sinks, and to complete the scene, a line of urinals.

He looked at himself in the mirror above one of the sinks, making a mental note to daub some cream on his exposed parts to prevent the already reddening skin on his face and ears getting more seriously burnt. There were a few other men in the room, most of them looking as if they'd spent a considerable amount of time outdoors. David had pointed out to him the extent of the Kibbutz's estate as the small bus from the town had bowled through the fields. Sunflowers nodded their heads towards them as they passed, and in the distance, an orchard of what looked like Avocado trees reminded him of Napoleon's comment in Waverly's office. Something about his tone in their last conversation had alerted Illya to his partner's mood. In the past, a liaison with a beautiful woman like Cecilia Luft would have been something the American relished, the equivalent of caviar and champagne to the connoisseur of fine dining. But that was before Josefina. Illya had no concerns that his partner would act the part with the Swiss woman, but whether he would enjoy it to the same extent remained to be seen.

The room looked the same when he returned, or at least it would to the average occupant. Except that the tiny filament Illya had fastened across the door had been broken. He threw his dirty clothes and wash bag down on the bed, and opened the wardrobe. Everything was ostensibly in order, but he knew immediately that the rucksack had been searched. The other filament which he had attached between the wardrobe and the wall was intact. Dropping his towel, he pulled on some clean underwear, a pair of thin casual trousers and a cool white shirt, before sliding his feet into a pair of leather sandals that he'd picked up in Jerusalem. He pulled the rucksack out, and carefully slid out his knife and a set of small tools which had lain undiscovered in the stiff base of the bag.

A great hammering at the door announced Kaplan, who, without waiting, immediately entered the room, giving Illya just enough time to secrete the knife and tools in his clothes before he straightened and greeted his friend.

'You know we eat communally' David began, as they walked outside in the cool evening breeze. 'My parents will be disappointed, but Aaronheim knows you're here, and he asked if he could see you tonight, after dinner.' Illya nodded.

'I'll talk to them at dinner. Don't worry, I've brought enough pictures to keep your mother happy, at least for now' he replied.

The dining hall was awash with the hubbub of a whole community engaged in one great communal activity. Unlike the UNCLE commissary, here vast refectory tables stretched away down the room, a sea of expectant faces seated on corresponding long benches on either side, and from a large serving hatch at the end of the room, bowls of something Illya knew would taste delicious being distributed by a band of eager young men and women.

David waved towards the back of the room and began to drag Illya along between the rows, acknowledging greetings from various families as they pushed their way through. Illya could see Kaplan's parents now, his father rising to his feet as they approached.

'_Shalom_, my boy. It is good, very good, to see you' Isaak Kaplan murmured, in the tone Illya remembered well from many nights staring into the older man's face as he outmanoeuvred Kuryakin on the chess board. His wife was now standing too, pulling Illya down between them like a little boy between his parents.

'_Oy veh_, you are such a man now!' she said enthusiastically into his ear, kissing and hugging him several times before David was able to restrain her. Illya gazed longingly at the food in front of him, as Mrs Kaplan continued to ply him with a whole series of questions designed to elicit every detail of his life from the last ten years.

'Let the man eat his dinner, mama, then he will answer all your questions' David insisted, simultaneously introducing the Russian to his wife and children who were obviously used to the elder Mrs Kaplan's interrogation techniques of shy young men like the one sitting opposite them that evening.

The noise of the hall suddenly evaporated as a man stood up. Illya judged him to be the Rabbi from the mere power of his presence in the room. A series of blessings later, the meal began; as Illya expected, a wonderful series of home-cooked dishes which brought back happy memories of evenings where Mrs Kaplan had devoted herself to 'putting some meat on that boy's bones.'

Towards the end of the meal, Illya felt David dig him in the ribs and nod towards the end of the table immediately parallel to them.

'Aaronheim. That's him, the one with the curly hair and the blue _Yarmulke'. _Illya looked across the room surreptitiously. Orin Aaronheim was sitting talking to a woman with a red scarf tied round her head who Illya presumed was his wife, six children bearing an obvious family resemblance, sat adjacent to them at the table.

'Yes, like you, he has been blessed with a large family' Kaplan whispered. 'Do you want me to introduce you?' Illya grasped his arm and forced him back immediately onto the bench.

'David, don't even look in his direction again. When the meal is finished, I want you to go back to where we agreed, and leave me to do my job. Do you understand?' Kaplan saw something in the set of Kuryakin's face that hadn't been apparent before. For a few, transient seconds, it was if another man was sitting next to him, before the familiar relaxed smile of his former friend returned.

'Now,' he said, turning slightly towards Kaplan's mother, and passing her a little wallet of photographs, permit me to explain . . . .'

xxxxxx

The Aaronheim home was part of a set of one story buildings set apart from the main complex and the other, larger accommodation areas. Illya assumed that the larger families lived here, judging from the little park close by with its play equipment he was now personally very familiar with, and the number of families walking in the same direction as he now took away from the dining hall.

Whoever had searched his room was keeping a very low profile; even to his experienced eyes, nobody seemed to be obviously interested in the blond student spending his vacation working on a Kibbutz. After a few minutes of loitering in and around the houses, the others dispersed; some to their homes and others going in the direction of what looked like a large musical gathering in an attractive amphitheatre between the houses and the main complex. He could hear the sounds of guitars being tuned, then a low, melodious voice beginning to sing some traditional sounding folk song, other voices joining in until their voices echoed seductively round the amphitheatre.

Despite the considerable heat of the evening, Illya noticed that the wooden shutters on the outside of the windows were closed. He frowned slightly, and glancing behind him, knocked at the door before trying the handle. Strangely, the door was locked. In New York, he mused, this would not be as extraordinary as it was here, in fact he realised that this was the first locked door he had encountered since arriving. It seemed both pointless and probably risky to remain standing there. Looking behind him quickly, he sauntered round the corner of the building until he stood in the shadow created by the house and its adjacent neighbour. Behind his head, a small shut up window looked out blankly at the corresponding window in the house opposite it. Unlike the tightly closed opening behind him, the other window was obviously open from the noise of children's voices emerging from it, the shutters loosely held together to keep the cool in and the light out. Illya grimaced at the shutter, before twisting round his watch and pulling a thin thread from the winding mechanism. Luckily, the noise of the explosive was minimal, the shutters obligingly swinging open to reveal the window shut fast against him.

The room was in profound darkness, just the shadow of an interior door apparent from the window. After a few moments of intense staring, Illya began to discern other shadows. On the floor lay what was becoming clearly the body of an adult woman, and wedged against her, six smaller bodies lay disturbingly still. Illya turned away from the window, allowing himself a few seconds to reflect on the implications of the scene in the room. Even if the Aaronheims were dead, then he still needed to enter the house. His mind flickered back to the scene in the dining hall earlier in the evening; the family at the table reminding him of his kitchen, of his children. He shut his eyes, squeezing the image out until he could ascertain the truth of what had happened inside this house.

Picking up a small stone, he rapped it hard against the pane. The glass shattered easily, allowing him to turn the catch and push the windows open. With a slight heave, he scrambled over the ledge and landed lightly on the hard glazed floor of the room. He froze for a moment, waiting for any reaction from any other part of the house. When none came, he crept silently towards the huddled figures on the floor.

As soon as he touched them, he could feel they were alive, though quite deeply unconscious. Aaronheim's wife, with her red headscarf still intact, lay in a prone position on the floor, the children lying almost symmetrically round her, three either side. He touched one child's cheek, pushing back the dark curly hair that had fallen over her face as she lay wedged against her mother.

The door was slightly ajar, it being obvious immediately that the rest of the house was also in darkness. Illya opened it just enough to creep through, cursing himself for not thinking this situation might occur and not doing something about his hair and his shirt, which were both now faintly glowing in the murky light. He moved silently down the corridor and stood where he could see into the main room. A figure sat motionless in the middle of the room. The position of the chair was unnatural enough for Illya to know that its occupant was not there voluntarily, and he inched forward into the room, drawing his knife out from his leg as he moved, until he was just behind the chair.

There was a slight movement from the chair, to which Illya could now see its occupant was firmly tied. He heard Aaronheim start to talk, but it was impossible to decipher what he was saying through the tape which was plastered across his face. Illya came round slowly, until the terrified man in front of him could see who he was.

'I'm going to pull this off, OK?' he whispered, waiting until Aaronheim looked a little less hysterical. Something about the shape of the man suddenly made him hesitate. Aaronheim's eyes were frantically attempting to indicate something on his body. Even before he ripped off the tape and Aaronheim screamed out, he knew what it was. He clapped his hand over Aaronheim's mouth.

'You have a bomb attached to you. Please remain very still.'

When he felt Aaronheim's breathing begin to slow, Illya withdrew his hand.

'My wife, my family . . .'

'are alive.' Illya drew up a chair opposite him and sat down, so that he was now facing the device he could see just inside Aaronheim's shirt, taped to his body.

'I'm going to defuse this' he said calmly, pulling his set of tools out of his trouser pocket, 'and then you can tell me what happened.'

They had been in the house when the family returned from supper.

'They weren't familiar to me, but we have a lot of people through here, particularly in the summer' he had begun. 'One of them, the woman, took my wife and children into one of the bedrooms. They said that they would be killed if I didn't do as they asked. They wanted the papers of course. When I refused, they put this on me. They gave Rebekah and the children something. Claimed that they were being kind, so they wouldn't suffer when the bomb blew this place apart.'

Illya grimaced, and then, putting on his glasses, started to examine the device.

'So presumably the idea is to destroy both you and the papers?' he said, not looking up. After a few seconds Illya looked up into Aaronheim's face, wondering why there was no response. The man was locked into an expression of absolute paralysing fear.

'Don't worry,' Illya continued calmly, 'this device has a little while to go before detonation. It's relatively simple to . . .ah yes I see . . just . . .there!' With a smile of encouragement, he triumphantly held up the little device in front of the now completely collapsed man in front of him.

'_Oy gevalt! _You have saved us!' he exclaimed, moving the chair forward alarmingly, until Illya detached him from it.

'Mr Aaronheim, just sit for a few minutes and listen. Your wife and family are safe; we'll just have to wait until they wake up, but I should imagine it won't be long. They won't have sedated them much' Illya began, putting his hands on Aaronheim's shoulders to steady him. 'From what I can see they will be expecting this device to detonate shortly, and I think it may become necessary not to disappoint them.' Aaronheim stared wildly at him, and then at the device, as if it would somehow explain what the man in front of him meant.

'The people who did this to you are very determined' Illya said. You may not like what I'm going to suggest, but I think, in the short term at least, it may be the only solution. Do you have the documents here?' Aaronheim nodded, then reached his hand slightly under the table he was sitting by. A small drawer sprung out, the contents of which Aaronheim grabbed and extended to Kuryakin.

Illya stuffed them into his trouser pocket, and then pulled out his communicator. 'I am going to ask my colleagues to find you and your family somewhere safe to stay until we can resolve this' he said, patting his pocket. 'What these people are expecting to see is this house exploding with you all inside. I propose modifying this device so that the explosion is effective, but hopefully not too destructive to surrounding buildings. However, we will all need to get clear of the building before it detonates.'

He smiled resignedly at Aaronheim. 'I'm sorry, it will mean your home being destroyed.'

Aaronheim leaned back and wiped his head with a large handkerchief.

'Make your call, and I will try to rouse my family' he said, getting up and heading for the door. He turned back as he was going out. 'The camps teach you many things, Mr Kuryakin, the most important one being that people come before things, yes?' Illya nodded and flicked open his communicator.

xxxxxx

Aaronheim and his wife were sitting on the bed cradling the three youngest children, the other, older children huddled near them in the darkness of the room. Something about them pierced Illya's memories, casting him back to their apartment in Kiev; he could almost see himself standing, similarly pressed to his mother as these children were, as his uncle stood in front of them holding the two small suitcases containing the only possessions they were able to take with them. Similarly, a couple of bags and another suitcase now stood ready.

He could see that the younger children, including a baby not much smaller than his own beloved boys, were still sleeping, perhaps mercifully on reflection. Going over to the bed, he gently lifted the baby and held him tightly to his chest, as he signalled to them to move to the window.

'As soon as we are out of here, go straight to the clinic. Dr Kaplan will check your wife and children over, and then we will move you to a place of safety' he whispered. Without needing prompting, Aaronheim pulled a chair to the window and climbed through, Illya passing out the luggage, and then helping his wife and the children through. He looked down at the sleeping baby attached to his shirt, his tiny hands pushed up by his face as if praying, the dark eyelashes fringing the tiny cheeks below his mop of curly hair. He kissed the top of the baby's head and passed him through, before turning back.

'Mr Kuryakin, come on!' he heard Aaronheim's insistent voice from outside the window. He could see them all there, five anxious faces and three sleeping ones standing motionless again outside, as the sound of the concert drifted into the house; a single, sweet voice accompanied by drums, then more voices, the powerful rhythms filling the room with expectation.

'Go!' Illya urged, 'I have to make sure of the device, then I'll join you at the clinic.' They hesitated fractionally, before disappearing into the shadows. Illya breathed out heavily, and returned to the other room.

He sat down on the chair and picking up the device from the table, began to remove some of the explosive charge. He could feel his shirt sticking to him slightly, the little timer in the bomb reminding him that he had five minutes to finish and be out of the vicinity before the house went up. He had tried this before, knew he could achieve it, knew he had to, otherwise other lives would be forfeit and it would be his responsibility. The image of the Aaronheim baby filled his mind as he worked. None of their children had Tess's looks, not really, and he felt momentarily sad about it as he remembered the soft curly head on his chest. He shook his head and smiled. Perhaps one day there would be room for another at the table. He got up and carefully placed the device on the chair, dragging some cushions and throws over it before glancing at his watch. He caught himself saying a quick prayer to St Jude before retreating rapidly out of the room.

The impact of the blast threw him out of the window he had been halfway through into the dark space between the houses. He felt the path rise up to meet him as an assortment of wood and glass ricocheted across his body. Staggering to his feet, he could feel the power of the fire's roar behind him as he continued to force himself forward in a stumbling run away from the building.

The beautiful music of the evening had now given way to a wave of discordant screaming as Illya was aware of the chaotic thudding of feet round and past him. He could feel blood trickling into his mouth from somewhere on his face, combined with a steadily growing pain in his back. Squeezing his eyes together to allow him to focus, he began to force his buckling legs to stay upright, to carry him at least a little further. Looking down he could see that his trousers seemed to have been shredded, his bloody knees poking through as he attempted to move. Then, as he began to sink, he felt arms supporting him, lifting him until with bleary eyes he could gaze into familiar ones staring worriedly into his.

'Up to your usual last minute tricks, I see, old man'. Illya frowned, glancing from one side of him to the other.

'Vaz?' What are you . . . I mean . .'

'Lucky for you, old chap, Fernando here and I just found ourselves available to give you a little of the old heave-ho' Fernandes continued cheerfully, watching Kuryakin turn his head slowly and give his brother in law a confused look before his eyes began to close in a clear sign to the other agents that he had reached the limits of his considerable endurance.

The clinic was lit up as they arrived, Fernando now carrying Illya in a fireman's hold for the last few yards until he could be laid on a bed in one of the examination rooms. Fernando could tell that the Russian was trying to say something as a woman who seemed to be connected to the doctor in some way began to strip off his clothes, her eyes narrowing as she exposed the injuries on Kuryakin's back.

'David. Need to ask . . .' Fernando heard the rasping voice whisper, before a man with a thick beard appeared and knelt down by the silent figure on the bed.

'They have gone. Your friends here organised it. Don't worry, they will be safe until we've patched you up, my _boychick' _Kaplan quietly explained, his hand on Kuryakin's head. Now, I'm going to give you something for the pain which you won't admit to, and then we'll sort this mess out' he said, taking a syringe from his wife and turning Illya's arm outward, sliding the needle into a vein.

'Good, that'll make our job easier' he said rather seriously to the two agents standing silently either side of the Russian. Vaz signalled to Fernando as Kaplan and his wife began working on Illya, murmuring in gentle tones to each other as they eased the debris out of his back and cleaned the wounds.

'I'm going back to his room to collect his things, then out to Haifa to check on our new guests' he murmured. 'Stay here until we know what his condition is; and you need to get in touch with his partner, who, if I know him, will want to know everything, in detail, old boy. Get my drift?'

'Absolutely' Fernando replied, wincing slightly as he watched David Kaplan suturing a deep wound on Illya's shoulder. 'Oh, and make sure you get whatever is secreted somewhere in those' Fernandes said, glancing down at the pile of Illya's clothes on the floor. 'I don't want him to have gone through this for nothing.' He melted away as Fernando leaned down, and drew the slim package from the remains of Illya's trousers, together with his communicator, and, nestling in the pocket of his shirt, a battered picture of a girl with long brown curly hair.

CHAPTER 6

The sheet beneath him felt rough against his cheek, heightening his awareness of just how sore his body felt. Illya forced his eyes open fractionally, then shut them again and attempted to roll back from the prone position he found himself in. The pain from his back made him gasp involuntarily, making him realise that moving probably hadn't been such a good idea after all.

'Sleeping beauty awakes, at last.' For one moment he could have sworn he had heard Napoleon's voice. He could see Fernando across the other side of the room lying on a leather examination couch, stir and sit up, his curly hair slightly flattened against his head as he swung his legs round and stood up.

'Were you supposed to be guarding me?' Illya said hoarsely, his mouth feeling like a dried up sponge.

'No, I am, considering you've managed to half blow yourself to pieces.' Fernando grinned as Napoleon walked across the room and knelt down by his partner's head. Illya pursed his lips slightly, before Napoleon reached back and put a small plastic cup of water to his partner's mouth.

'Sip, slowly. You know the score' he said, pulling a chair to the bed.

'What are you doing here?' Illya croaked between sips, 'I thought you were living the playboy life in London.'

'Well luckily for you I was still there when Fernando let me know where _you _were, so I thought I had better untangle the mess you seem to have gotten yourself into . . again.' Fernando could see Kuryakin's face blanch slightly and his lips squeezing together into a line.

'Everything has gone according to plan; well almost according to plan' Illya hissed as the door swung open. Napoleon put the cup back on the bedside cabinet, his face creasing into a wicked smile.

'Ah, your favourite activity is about to begin, comrade. Shall I move and give you a little room girls?' Illya heard him say as he saw his friend's legs and the chair move away from the bed.

'What is going on? Oh.' A large trolley came to rest beside the bed.

'Napoleon? Where are you?' Napoleon appeared and crouched down between the trolley and the table. 'Rescue me' the Russian whispered, his eyes reminding Napoleon of the twin baby Kuryakins.

'Mr Kuryakin. You are still covered in plaster debris from your hair to your feet due to that mysterious explosion that your friend here tells me was due to a faulty gas bottle. Now, if you two would like to come back later, we'll attempt to make this one here a little more respectable.' Fernando recognised the older of the two nurses as Mrs Kaplan, who was rolling her sleeves up in a purposeful way, as the younger girl, whom he noted had the most beautiful brown eyes, filled a large bowl with water from the sink behind them.

As Napoleon and Fernando backed out of the room, he could see the two nurses advancing on Kuryakin, who was now starting his usual playing awkward routine.

'Illya, cooperate!' Napoleon said, trying to keep his face at least moderately serious looking. 'We'll come back when you're fit for decent company.'

xxxxxx

He was lying on his side when they returned, his wet hair combed back firmly from his face and his expression that of a little boy who'd been sent to bed early.

'Ah, there you are. Thank you for abandoning me into the hands of those women. They practically drowned me, you know.'

'I'm sure you loved every minute of it' Napoleon smiled, sitting on the bed next to his scowling partner. He could see that the Russian had sustained numerous superficial injuries, including some bad grazes and a developing black eye on his face, as well as the more serious, deeper lacerations on his back.

'You'll be pleased to know, partner mine, your little explosion didn't injure anyone else, apart from you that is, and there was minimal damage to other buildings. Vaz has talked to the Aaronheims, and we're going to move them to a safe house further south, when we move you to Jerusalem'. Illya frowned, pulling his hair back over his forehead with his fingers.

'What do you mean, _move_ me to Jerusalem?'

'He means, _boychick_, that you need a little longer in the caring hands of the medical profession than you think you do, and your partner here thinks you should be somewhere away from here'. David Kaplan walked in cheerfully, glancing at his patient before turning to Napoleon.

'I'll give you his records before you leave. The deeper wounds will need about a week, perhaps a little more, before the sutures can be removed, and I've put him on a course of antibiotics which I'd be grateful if you could make sure he finishes' he added, smiling. 'Apart from that, it's just bumps and bruises that should heal naturally.'

'I am here, you know. And I'm perfectly able to understand my prognosis and treatment.' They turned round to be greeted with the usual arctic glare, accentuated by the black eye and grazed cheeks.

'Well then lie back and take your medicine like a good boy' Napoleon said, as with perfect timing, Kaplan's wife returned with two syringes laid in a metal dish.

'Two injections?' Illya moaned, as with a determined pull, she rolled him towards her until his face was virtually wedged against her midriff, pulling down his pyjama trousers at the same time.

'This is a loading dose and he can have the rest in tablets' she said, jabbing the syringe into the waiting skin on his buttocks. 'And the other is your sedation, which I told you I would give you if you didn't rest' she said, plunging the other syringe in, and rubbing the spot.

'But I don't need . . .' Illya's head fell forward slightly, his face now in repose. Mrs Kaplan gently rolled him forward into a prone position and arranged the pillows behind him.

'I know he's only just come round, but I can tell he's going to be trouble unless we can keep him under for a couple of days' she said smiling, and stroking the now drying hair back from his sleeping face.

'Well you won't get away with that again' Napoleon replied. 'He'll be wise to your plans, but by the look of him, he could do with the rest.' David Kaplan nodded, a more serious expression filling his normally lively face.

'I didn't tell him, but he was one lucky _mensch_' he said, drawing the sheet back to expose Kuryakin's back, naked except for the bandages criss-crossing it. 'See this? That could easily have severed his spinal cord if it had gone any nearer. That is why he needs to keep still, _fershtay_?'

'Yep. I understand' Napoleon replied, raising his eyebrows a little. 'Will he be safe to move soon?'

'Yes; we'll keep him sedated for a few days, then he can wake up to the sights of Jerusalem. He'll be fine after that, and Aaronheim can visit him there. I know Orin is very anxious to talk to him about the papers. I think that he thinks Kuryakin will understand why he feels like he does.

'Oh?' Napoleon said, 'why?'. Kaplan sighed a little and looked out of the window before returning his gaze to the man lying peacefully in the bed.

'Because he thinks he understands about the camps, and about what it means to lose everything; and in Aaronheim's case, I mean _everything_' he said.

Xxxxxxx

_The space was stifling, the smell of dust and soot invading his nostrils with a gritty, pungent smell of smoke and fire. It was impossible not to touch the sides of his prison without feeling the choking, soft dirt on his hands and face, but the darkness was absolute; if he was covered from head to toe with the stuff he couldn't see it, only smell its presence. The softness of the toy bear was a comforting contrast to the coarse sootiness of the enclosure, and he held the bear to his face, drinking in its solid furry presence. He could feel his heart beating steadily in the black silence, his ears strained for noise, for her voice to return and free him._

_He could hear voices, female voices distantly, then the slam of a door, then silence. A tumultuous banging followed immediately; lower, rougher voices and boots stamping, stamping into the room. Cringing, he heard the sound of things, precious things being smashed, then the wrenching open of the door and the grinding of the hangers on the rail so close by he almost could hear the breathing of those who were so near. He felt his own breath coming in great, shaking gasps, his body rigid against the soft toy. He closed his eyes and felt his hand close on the little medallion in the pocket of his shorts. _

_Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have mercy on me, a sinner._

_The old prayer, heard a thousand times, swept over him, wave like, rising and falling with his frantic efforts to keep control of his pulsating heart. The sounds of the Fritzes, for he recognised them now, receded a little, but with the wardrobe door open, his vigilant ears caught again the sound of another, harsher male voice filling the space beyond him. He gripped the bear until he could feel his finger nails either side of the soft arm, biting his lip as the door was banged shut violently. But the man was still there, he knew he was still there, and now she was there too._

_Then there were only low sounds; a bed creaking, low animal-like grunting, a higher-pitched sad moan followed by hard footsteps and a final, heavy slam of a distant door. He was unable to stop himself from allowing a sob to leave his body, or to prevent the warm liquid from spilling out, insidiously soaking his clothes, now turning to chilling cold that matched the despair in his heart. He dropped the bear and began to scream into the darkness; a long sad sob. .'mamaa'. . ._

'Illya, Illya! Wake up. Wake up!' Napoleon put his hand on his partner's shoulder and felt his arm grasped in a harsh, frantic grip, the Russian's face momentarily filled with a frightening mixture of confusion and terror until the world of his present reasserted itself.

'OK? Just lie back and stay calm, then perhaps you can let me in on where you were just now' Solo said, trying not to let the worry spread too easily across his face.

Illya lay back gingerly on the sheets, a look of discomfort communicating itself to his partner.

'I'm sorry, I can't understand why I should . . .' He stared unhappily at his partner, and then slightly reddened. 'Napoleon, I will explain, but you need to help me with something first. It appears that my dream was a little too real in at least one department. Er . .' He looked down, Napoleon following the direction of his gaze.

'Oh, right. I'll get the sheets' he said gently.

'When will Aaronheim arrive?' Illya asked. He looked a little more himself now, Napoleon thought, a bath and some clean, dry pyjamas bringing restoration of the calmness the Russian usually displayed.

'After lunch. Was it thinking about him that brought it on?'

'The dream? Probably.' Illya pushed the pillows up behind the bed, and crossed his legs, Buddha like, on top. 'I've been thinking about this Blau business. No doubt you've been making someone work overtime in the Research Department, and know at least some of what I'm going to tell you'.

'That Konstantin Blau was in Kiev when you were living there? Uh-huh. But you surely can't remember him, can you? I'm guessing that you were only what, six, when he was doing his rounding-up job'. Illya nodded, frowning.

'So how did you manage to evade . . . ' Napoleon nodded, tapping his finger on his cheek. 'Ah, that's what the dream is about, am I right? Marina hid you'. Illya ran his tongue along his lips and rubbed his hand through the back of his hair.

'The owner of the apartments had lived in ours immediately before us. I think he moved out for somewhere bigger. Anyway, he had made a space in a redundant chimney in his bedroom, ostensibly for hiding his valuables from anyone who might come looking' Illya said, smiling a little wanly. 'He had positioned an enormous, or so it seemed to me as a child, an enormous wardrobe in front, making a secret door into the space from the back of the wardrobe. Mama told me much later that a Nazi officer had spotted a photograph of me at the hospital, and they came looking shortly afterwards.'

'And she hid you in there?' Napoleon asked incredulously. 'It must have been tiny.'

'As you never cease reminding me, I was on the small side' Illya smiled back, 'in this case, fortuitously.'

'And he did come looking?' Illya nodded.

'Oh yes. I'm pretty sure, thinking about it now, that it was him in the room, with my mother.' They stopped talking for a few moments, as if the events of that long-ago day needed to be reflected upon by both men.

'Well, presumably your mother will know who he is and can tell us' Napoleon said eventually. Illya leaned back slightly on the bed and sighed.

'She won't talk about it, at least to me' he said quietly. Something happened in that room, Napoleon, something I think we can both guess at and which I cannot expect her to tell me unless she wants to. The dream, in the dream I can hear the noises in the room, I can hear him and her, and I am still powerless to help her, just as powerless as I was then.'

His partner's anguish was almost palpable in the still, sunny room. Napoleon shuddered inwardly at the scene, a bleak contrast to his more or less idyllic, safe childhood far from war, violence and evil intent. He sat on the bed and looked at Kuryakin, wishing he could offer some way of mitigating the pain emanating from the Russian's whole body. It seemed a pretty low thing to pursue the connection, but Marina's experience with Blau could give them valuable information, particularly if what Napoleon thought about the elder Blau brother might turn out to be true.

'Do you think she would talk to me? Or perhaps to Peter?' Illya came out of what Napoleon thought was a long reflection, and said,

'What would be the point? She might talk to one of you, but he's dead isn't he? Why put her through all that for what, background information? Besides, you'll have to wait till she gets back from their holiday. They've taken Pablo and Pascale to Liverpool to stay with our parents in law, then I think they're going to Scotland for a week.'

'What, with the kids?' Illya smiled again, much to Napoleon's relief.

'No. The McCafferys are taking them to Mallorca for the whole summer. If you remember from that day when your wife tried to organise our lives for us, when this is all over, we are all supposed to be joining them, which could be in about November, by the way this is all working out'. Napoleon grinned, remembering Josefina with one of her yellow legal pads, head to head with the Russian.

'Ah yes. Well, I think we'll all be needing a bit of R and R if we can pull this one off' he replied. He got up from the bed and walked towards the window. The mid-day sun was high in the sky, beating down on the ancient city and contrasting the extremes of the bleached, ancient rock of the Western Wall and the bright gold of the Dome of the Rock. One city, so many religions; mysterious, ancient. It seemed a fitting place to be discussing this complex mission with its tentacles stretching out into the past, even into the deeply personal and private past of his partner's life.

He turned round and looked at Illya, now lying back on the pillows with his eyes closed. The Russian's face still bore the marks of the explosion, or his flight from it; the bruising was now entering its yellow phase, and the large graze across his cheek looked brown and crusty on the delicate features.

'Have you read the papers Aaronheim gave me?' Illya said quietly, eyes still closed.

'Uh-huh. And very interesting they were too. I'm certainly won over to the case for a connection between the nice people at the Adler Society and the lost paintings. What I'm less clear about is the role Cyrus Blau is playing in all this, and why he should want all this money, apart from the obvious reasons of course.' He saw Kuryakin's eyelashes twitch slightly and his brow contract and become smooth again almost as if his thoughts could be viewed being processed beneath the thick fringe of golden hair.

'I thought he was an Art Dealer in London.' He opened his eyes and stared at his partner. 'You know something else about him, don't you?' Solo leant back against the wall and sighed.

'Yeah. And you're not going to like it.' He walked back towards the bed and sat down in a low armchair by the side of his partner.

'He is an Art Dealer, but not just that and not just in London. You're right, I did get the girls in Research to do some more digging.' He hesitated, inviting another flicker of his partner's eyelashes.

'And . . .?'

Napoleon sighed, this time more deeply. 'And, they discovered that brother Cyrus, as well as having an extensive dealership in the United States, with a shop and a very exclusive home in New York, is also connected with academic institutions in our fair city, notably those with expertise in the field of conservation, and, more importantly, of art authentication'. Illya opened his eyes and looked quizzically at his partner.

'That is very interesting, and suggests that the likelihood of him needing the services of someone in those fields may be quite high, but, Napoleon, I'm still puzzled as to why you think I shouldn't like it.'

'Because, Illya, he has just given a very large donation to, and is now on the board of governors of, the Steinhardt School.' Kuryakin's eyes flew open and he jerked forward, bringing his legs over the side of the bed and, with obvious pain, getting to his feet.

'Don't try to stop me, Napoleon' he gasped, pulling the wardrobe door open and looking worriedly into its empty space.

'Carry on, but you won't get very far in pyjamas' Solo replied, shutting the door and gently sitting his partner down on the side of the bed. He sat down in the chair again, taking his communicator out and twisting the cap while he watched Kuryakin sitting disconsolately on the bed.

'Listen, we'll be back in New York very soon, and Illya, Waverly knows about Blau and where his connections are. I'm sure he's put something in place as far as Tess is concerned.'

'I don't want her involved, Napoleon' Illya said, rather despairingly. 'After the business with Mitchell, I can't put her through any more, it's just not . . fair.'

Napoleon looked up into his friend's face. The powerful emotions he had witnessed in Kuryakin's story of his childhood seemed to be repeating themselves again, this time with regard to his wife.

'Illya' he said quietly, 'she is involved. Putting Blau aside for a moment, she is already connected to this case. Look.' He drew out the envelope Aaronheim had given Illya, and spread the contents onto the bed in front of him. The Russian reached over and picked up a long air mail envelope from the pile of documents. He stared at the writing on the cover for a minute, before withdrawing the flimsy paper from inside. He could see immediately whose hand it was; the even italic, so familiar to him, covering the translucent sheets with her usual combination of personal details of family and formidable academic knowledge, her sensitive, intuitive nature flowing through her questioning of Aaronheim and her response to his story, his pain.

_I know that one day your lovely painting will be restored to you, dear Orin, and perhaps my family and yours will meet beneath it to offer thanks, and to say Kaddish for those who will not be with you on that day._

'Did you know she was writing to him?' Illya shook his head, returning the letter to its envelope. 'Aaronheim said he didn't realise at first she was your wife. I think he is quite smitten with her; he told me she was one of the few gentiles who were able to fully understand the significance of regaining the picture for him.'

Illya smiled, thinking of the copy stuck to their study wall, and of the similarly beautiful woman working at the desk below it.

'Well we'd better try and get it back for him' he said simply, continuing to sift through the papers on the bed.

xxxxxxx

Napoleon recognised the familiar landmarks of the run-in to La Guardia and nudged his partner. The journey from Jerusalem had been difficult for the Russian; his back, though healed enough to have the sutures removed, was still sore enough to cause him considerable discomfort, especially in a sitting position on board the aircraft that he had insisted upon for the flight back.

They had pored over the documents again together after Kuryakin's meeting with Aaronheim, and he had now made a neat précis of the information gained, as well as a list of the papers. As well as copies of the works of art themselves, with reserve prices attached to each copy, there was a list of bidders, together with a diary of meetings in Switzerland, London and New York, before the auction eventually took place, at an undisclosed location.

'There are several things about this that puzzle me, Napoleon' Kuryakin had said after they had returned the documents to the attaché case Solo was carrying on the journey. 'If these pictures are being sold, then what is the Adler Society doing with the money? Helping old Nazis to have their day in the sun, or what?'

Napoleon glanced behind him. In the first-class compartment which they had surprisingly been upgraded to, there were few other travellers; several businessmen he guessed, and a few rather affluent looking couples, including a woman with a rather alarming shade of blue rinsed hair several seats back whose strident voice and excessive demands managed to cover their conversation quite well. Illya sighed as they were subjected to yet another example of her unreasonable behaviour with the air stewardesses.

'I have to agree with you about the money' Napoleon said, signalling to the stewardess. 'Which is why I think you will have to get up close and personal with Mr Cyrus Blau before much longer.'

'I can hardly wait' Illya grumbled, taking his glasses off and thrusting them into his jacket pocket. He noticed that unusually, Solo was looking quite serious still, as the Stewardess handed them their menus for the lunch about to be served.

'I'm afraid that isn't all' he said. 'As you said, it's fairly obvious that the boys at the Adler Society are not funnelling the money towards the Jewish Benevolent Fund. I have to say that it looks as if there might be one Nazi in particular who might be benefiting from the auctions, though where he is, and why he needs all this money is not, at least to me, entirely clear'.

Illya put his menu down and stared at his partner, his still damaged face now showing the same pain Napoleon glimpsed as he woke from the dream in the clinic at Haifa.

'I presume by that you mean Konstantin Blau' he murmured.

'So it appears.'

Illya stood up at once and, without speaking, headed for the toilets at the back of the cabin. Napoleon glanced round, his ears immediately assaulted by a high-pitched complaint from the blue-rinse woman behind. He could see a bevy of stewardesses swarmed around her seat, the Russian nowhere to be seen.

'Something wrong?' he whispered to a harassed looking red-headed stewardess passing by.

'You could say that. Your friend, the blond one, managed to knock into Marion just as she was serving Mrs Waggoner. We won't hear the end of this one'. It seemed rather a long time later that the Russian finally regained his seat, his face a little calmer, even quite cheerful, Napoleon thought.

'Where've you been? My stomach is rapidly losing the will to live' Napoleon complained, glancing up as Kuryakin plonked himself down in the adjacent seat.

'I was making my peace with Mrs Waggoner' he grinned ruefully. 'It appears I caused an international incident on the way down the aisle, so Nora asked me to apologise so that she'd get off their backs'.

'Nora?'

'The redhead. Anyway, peace is now restored, in fact . . .' he pulled a card out of his pocket. 'If ever I'm in Versailles, Kentucky, I'm to look them up, as long as I promise to get a haircut first' he said smiling, and pushing his hair to the side.

'Well we wouldn't want to disappoint the good folks of Versailles, now, would we?' Napoleon said, flicking the blond hair as Illya bent to study the menu.

'Napoleon, is there something you're not telling me?'

Napoleon twitched his lips a little, pleased to see some humour returning to his partner's face.

'While you were away, Waverly was in touch. Um, suffice it to say, he does want you to get together with our friend Cyrus.' The smile which he had been attempting to hide broke out on his face.

'Wait till you hear the plan' he said. 'You'll love your part. Love it.'


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 7

Illya could hear the laughter cascading down the stairs like a waterfall, the children's higher-pitched screams and chuckles combining with his wife's lower tones. She was talking to them in French, her accent rather southern sounding, slower and more mellow than the Parisian French he had spoken as a student.

'_Non, non, non, Valentin! Donnez le bateau á Mikhail, s'il-te plâit._'

As he slid up the stairs and deposited his bag in the bedroom, the twins sounds of splashing and screaming continued. He smiled and, taking off his jacket and tie, headed for the noise. Four faces looked up from the bath, the sounds temporarily silenced, before the children all surged towards him, their arms stretching out in one mass of slippery pink wetness.

_ 'Non, non, Valya, Misha, attendez-vous! Tasiya, va-toi a papa . . lentement'_

Before he could grab a towel the little girl had climbed swiftly and rather acrobatically out of the bath and was in his arms. Holding her back, Illya managed to wind the towel round her and grab her again, until only her face and astonishing red hair were peeping out of the top.

'Why do you always have to do that?' Thérèse murmured; her eyes boring into him, while her lips seemed to be saying something different. He glanced at her sitting there, the twins pulled towards her like little plaster angels he'd seen on the ceilings of baroque churches. Keeping hold of the now squirming Tasiya, he leant across the bath and kissed her, not minding the wet hand now running through his hair.

'I'm sorry. It's proved to be quite a useful habit' he said, trying not to drink in her breasts too much and lose concentration on the task in hand, namely one gyrating, noisy two-year old. He carried the squealing little girl into her bedroom and unwrapped her on the bed, forcing pyjamas onto her kicking legs before she could escape and start using it as a trampoline.

xxxxxxx

'How do you manage on your own? I could hardly keep Anastasiya still, never mind the twins' Illya said, throwing himself back onto the sofa, silence now reigning on the first floor.

'I'm not on my own a lot of the time. Frankie comes round after classes; you remember, she's living next door now?' He did remember. His mother had virtually taken over his academic supervision of the girl, and now she had escaped the noisy, crammed Portelli household in favour of the rather quieter and more refined atmosphere that Peter and Marina had created in the house next door.

She leant over and took his hand, pulling him up and leading him downstairs to the kitchen. Every room in the house seemed to feel warm and welcoming to him, as if the place knew he was returning each time and had made a special effort to draw him into its cocoon of safety and normality. He furrowed his brow at the smells emanating from the oven.

'Um, how did you . . .'

'Jo. We have an arrangement, since you two don't feel able to announce your arrival until you're walking through the door, or in your case, _cheri_, standing in front of me. That's how I know you've been at the office this morning, she replied, turning towards him and pulling him towards her. She noticed his expression before he had the chance to relax his body from the tension her touch had created.

'Is it bad?' she murmured, scanning his face, while her hands gently held him against her body. He laid his head on her shoulder, allowing himself to be enfolded by her for several, delicious minutes.

'It was quite bad, but it's better now' he said at last, reasoning that she would see for herself soon enough.

He could see that she had made an effort with the food, although he still wondered how on earth she managed. _ Tartiflette_, a Savoyard recipe he loved, followed by _Iles Flottantes, _an almost magical combination of soft meringue and custard which guaranteed his submission to her will anytime it appeared on the table.

'Are you softening me up for something' he muttered, helping himself to the remains of the bowl. Thérèse smiled and put down her spoon.

'No doubt your partner in crime told you about my meeting with Waverly' she began, looking through her eyelashes at him.

'He did mention it'. He put down his spoon and looked at her sitting opposite him, the evidence of their young family all around them in the clutter of high chairs, toys and various works of art displayed in the room.

'Illyusha, I know you won't like it, but I'm in a very good position to help Orin, and . . ', she gazed across at him intently, and pushing her hair away from her face, turned her head slightly towards the window, watching the remains of the day flood the room with a deep, golden haze. 'You should understand, you of all people' she ended, returning her gaze to him.

'I do understand, but Teresita, this could be very dangerous.' Illya hesitated, his head slightly bowed.

'Mr Waverly told me that he thinks the money is going to fund some sort of right-wing activity' Thérèse continued, 'and you know, I can easily believe that Cyrus Blau is a Nazi sympathiser. He seems so, well, _cultured_, he's given a small fortune to the school, but there is something inherently chilling in his manner which, however charming he is on the outside, fills me with a kind of disgust. And apparently, according to my Head of Department, he's looking for someone to do a little authentication work for him.'

Illya sucked his lip a little and got up.

'I presume that's why Waverly wants you to involve yourself with this mission.' Thérèse got up and very gently put her arms round his waist.

'He wants us to move out of this house for a few weeks, until it's over' she began, reading the worried expressions flitting across his face as she talked. 'The School doesn't know I'm married. I registered with them ages ago before I met you, and my old supervisor has moved to Harvard. We're going to move into some apartments so that you can be near the children, but actually have a different address. They'll be safe on the days I'm working, now that the nursery is open. Did Napoleon tell you about your new role?' She smirked slightly, running her finger round the faint marks still on his face.

'No, but I have the feeling from the silly grin on his face that I'm not going to like it.' Illya replied, remembering his partner's expression on the plane. 'I'm not considered fit for active duty at the moment, so no doubt this will give us time to move and Section 8 to do their worst.'

xxxxx

Thérèse smoothed the oil over the outstretched back in front of her, her mouth clenched to prevent her from uttering any extreme reaction to the network of scars she could see laid out before her. Beside the red wheals of his recent injuries, lay the fainter, whiter marks of other encounters, which she had also lovingly massaged, endeavouring to mitigate the violent effects of his career on his body. When she had finished, she lent over and kissed the scars, before rolling over next to him.

'Thank you.'

'I thought you were asleep' Thérèse murmured into his ear, licking its rather pointed edge and stroking back the thick blond hair from the side of his head.

'Just waiting for you to finish' he muttered into the pillow, before turning slightly until he was lying on his side watching her. He pulled her gently towards him, drinking in the faintly perfumed smell her hair always seemed to exude.

'I can see that you've managed to force back the pain for the benefit of pleasure' Thérèse sighed, smiling and pulling him down as he began to conduct his usual exploration of her breasts with his mouth.

'To a Russian, it comes naturally' he murmured.

xxxxxxx

'Can you ascertain Mr Kuryakin's whereabouts?' Waverly asked the clerk as she handed him a set of files which he unceremoniously dumped on the table and swung round towards Napoleon.

'Er, I think he's in Section 8, sir' Napoleon replied, a smile breaking out on his face at the memory of Kuryakin's scowl on the plane.

'What, already?' Waverly replied, glancing at the folder in front of him.

'I think they're just outlining some possible ideas to him.'

'Well I hope he doesn't take too long, we need to discuss this matter before the gathering you are attending takes place. I think it may be pivotal in understanding who is involved in this organisation, and more important, the purpose of all this.'

The door behind them slid across as Waverly finished speaking, revealing the Russian, a broad smile unusually illuminating his face, carrying two large carrier bags full of what Napoleon took to be garments of some sort. He left them in the corner of the room before taking his place next to Napoleon, the smile still lurking on his features as he glanced at his partner. Napoleon hadn't seen him for a few days since they had returned from Israel, and he wondered whether the three day growth of beard on Kuryakin's face was due to weariness or some other, less obvious reason. Whatever it was, Waverly seemed to be ignoring it.

'Ah, Mr Kuryakin, at last,' Waverly said rather sharply, directing a momentary glance towards the two bags behind the agents.

'I'm sorry sir, we were just checking that the clothes still fitted me' Illya said, glancing rather lovingly towards the two bags, to Napoleon's amazement.

'I thought Rudi had more interesting plans for you' he said, looking Illya up and down.

'There's been a slight change of plan since you were last briefed, Mr Solo' Waverly interrupted. He pushed a file off the pile and spun the table round. 'As you know, we've advised Mrs Kuryakin to re-locate to an UNCLE apartment during the next phase of this affair. She shouldn't need to get overly involved, but we need to make sure there are no possible repercussions from her contact with Mr Blau. You, Mr Solo, will continue your role so that hopefully, you can persuade Miss Luft to reveal to you a little more about her part in the matter. We are hoping as well that Mrs Kuryakin can discover a little more about the whereabouts of the youngest brother, the part of this jigsaw that is a little opaque at the moment, I feel.'

'And _Mr_ Kuryakin?' Napoleon enquired, still aware of the mysterious bags which his partner seemed so proud of lurking behind them.

'Ah yes' Waverly replied, looking over his glasses at them both. 'Naturally, Mr Kuryakin is concerned about the risk to his wife, so we thought we could er, enable him to at least be physically near to her, as well as giving him a role which I hope will encourage Mr Cyrus Blau to involve him in his organisation and divert his attention away from Mrs Kuryakin.'

Napoleon frowned. Obviously Illya knew what Waverly was talking about, but his explanation meant absolutely nothing to him. He opened the file and drew out a couple of photos from within as a large version of the first flickered into life on the screen behind Waverly's head.

'This is Fynnes Court, the country home of Cyrus and Otilie Blau' Waverly said baldly. 'We have reason to believe it may be here that the private auctions take place, and that also from here Mrs Blau continues to operate her, um, 'activities'.'

The first image, a rather beautiful English manor house in what looked like extensive grounds, gave no indication of what might be found within. The house was large, with a central block balanced by two symmetrical wings in the Palladian style. A circular gravelled path ran round a large formal fountain in front of the main doors, which were reached by short, equally symmetrical flights of stairs on both sides.

'Very grand' Napoleon commented, gazing at the house, 'he must be quite the Lord of the Manor in those parts.'

'Indeed' Waverly said, flicking the screen on to the next images. As each image appeared, the outward, respectable appearance of the house started to peel away, as if a beautiful dolls house had been opened to reveal something more shocking inside.

'One of our agents from the London office managed to gain entry, posing as an, um, assistant' Waverly murmured. He transmitted these images before he disappeared.'

The first pictures seemed relatively normal, a series of rooms on the ground floor obviously photographed from the garden with a powerful lens.

'Look at the staff. Notice anything?' Illya said, with a knowing look on his face. Napoleon leaned forward, peering at the images closely.

'Ah yes. Very nice boys' he replied, eyebrows slightly raised. In the rooms there appeared to be a number of young men working, seemingly preparing for a social occasion. Without exception, they were all dressed in black; their trousers made of what looked like leather to Napoleon, and on top, plain, black turtle neck sweaters.

'I'm getting the drift about your possible new occupation, comrade' he murmured, as Illya leaned closer.

'Keep looking' Illya replied, sighing slightly.

The images changed suddenly to what was obviously the occasion the young men had been preparing for. The long dining room was now afire with what appeared to be thousands of twinkling lights, the table loaded with a huge selection of food placed round what looked like a very large model of an Indian elephant. Huge swathes of bright red and purple silk billowed on the walls like giant sails, the French doors thrown open onto the terrace which was bedecked with low chaise-longues and giant cushions in equally rich dark shades. The young men could now be seen dressed in altogether different outfits, the black uniform replaced by extremely tight-fitting velvet trousers, their heads enveloped in matching turbans. Their upper bodies remained bare, glistening in the darkness as they drifted among the guests, large trays of drinks of food held high.

'They look as if they're wearing . . .'

'Make-up.' Illya sighed again and nodded.

The last images were the most shocking. The guests were now in what looked like a very large cavern, the walls painted a deep purple, and no windows in evidence. Napoleon winced slightly at the range of objects being used by those present; things that he and Illya had also experienced at the hands of various sadistic torturers over the years. He glanced at his partner and saw that his face had taken on the appearance he usually adopted when confronted with deeply disturbing sights. Indeed, it had indeed lost any expression at all, appearing blank and featureless. Only he knew that the truth behind the mask was different.

Waverly suddenly turned off the screen and swung round to face them.

'I think we can safely assume that this is one of the darker sides of Mr Blau's operation' he said quietly, 'and that his wife is, let us say, 'in control' of that side of it. I am hoping that this forthcoming gathering in New York will provide you both with leads to the true purpose of all this' he said, waving his hand at the files. 'If this auction goes through, a great deal of money will pass into the control of this Adler Society , and it is imperative, gentlemen, that we find out exactly what it is being used for, and put a stop to it.'

xxxxxx

'You wouldn't like to fill me in with exactly what those are for?' Napoleon enquired, taking the coffee from Connie as Illya rooted through one of the bags on the desk behind them.

'Of course, but if you'd read the file I've just given you, you'd see' Illya replied, dragging out what looked like an extremely worn tuxedo from the pile of clothes now spilling out on the desk. Napoleon got up and grimaced at the clothes laid out in front of him.

'These seem a little familiar to me, Illya, especially . . .' he leant over and pulled out a creased wine-coloured jacket from underneath an assortment of white shirts and black ties.

'Yes, Napoleon, these are the clothes my wife and my so-called twin managed to dispose of while I was out of the country, and which, thankfully, a kind person in Section 8 purchased from a local thrift shop.' Illya removed his jacket and began to try on the tuxedo, before grabbing the wine coloured jacket and returning it to the bag.

'Um, the dinner jacket feels a little tight' he said, unbuttoning it and pulling it off before returning it to the bag with the other clothes.

'Not really surprising, since, if I remember, you bought that in London' Napoleon answered, wrinkling his nose at the garment. 'You were as thin as a garden rake then, remember?' Illya smiled, putting on his jacket.

Napoleon grabbed the file and began to glance through it.

'So you're not going to be cavorting round at Fynnes Court in those lovely velvet pants and eye liner' Napoleon said, flicking through the paper.

'Well, it might come to that, but I sincerely hope not' Illya replied, scratching the rather significant stubble on his chin. 'Rudi feels I should present something of a challenge to both Cyrus and Ottilie, if you take my meaning. Hopefully, at least one of them will employ me in some capacity.'

The outline of the Russian's new identity was set out in the file. Dietmar Krause, a German who had been a lecturer at Tübingen University, but who now, after being involved in some scandal with a male student, had resigned and taken a post in the Modern Languages Department at Steinhardt.

'The School here doesn't know about my murky past, but if Blau starts to dig he will find it, and no doubt use it against me' Illya said, leaning forward to look at the file. 'By coincidence, my small, depressing apartment is next door to a rather lovely young widow who just happens to be working at the same establishment' he added.

'Well, what a surprise' Napoleon said wryly, putting down the file. 'I suppose the rather unkempt look you appear to be developing is all part of the disguise too.'

'Exactly. I am hoping that Blau will invite me along to the party and that my lovely neighbour will feed enough information about my many attributes to him so that if the opportunity arises, I will be the natural choice ' he said, standing up and beginning to pick up the clothes which he had left on the desk. He disappeared out of the door towards the rest room, returning a few minutes later in a battered looking suit which Napoleon vaguely remembered him wearing in their early days together in New York. Returning to the bags, Illya dug round and then extracted a smaller plastic bag containing what looked like a pot of something and a comb.

'Now, Napoleon, I need your help to perfect my look' he said seriously, drawing out a chair from the desk, and putting the bag down. 'I'm due at the department soon, and then I have to go home and consult with my neighbour.'

'Ah, that's what you call it now' Napoleon murmured, taking up the bag and pulling out the comb and pot. 'You could do this yourself, you know, and besides, you need a little off the sides and back, don't you think?'

'Probably, but you'll just have to make the best of it for the moment' Illya said, sitting down, his hair immediately falling forward in a soft blond fringe across his face.

'Right, sit back and mark well, my wild-haired friend.' He opened the pot and scooped out a large dollop of the hair cream onto his hand. 'Solo's patent method for hair control . . .'

xxxxxxxxxx

Thérèse opened the rather heavy door and stepped inside. A small sea of faces turned momentarily towards her, retaining their gaze as they looked her up and down with varying degrees of interest, admiration and envy.

'Everyone, this is Thérèse McCaffery.' She had been encouraged to brave the staff room by the head of department, Harriet McLintock, who had swept into her tiny room earlier in the morning. The School itself was relatively quiet, the undergraduates being down leaving just the staff, as well as some postgraduate and doctoral students who were mainly lurking in the library, or, like herself, preparing for the next term before the holiday season really took hold.

Her gaze in turn swept across the room, but unlike the others, focused on the location of one person. She had hinted to Harriet McLintock that she was interested in conservation, and gratifyingly, she had immediately promised to recommend Thérèse to an important donor, whom she thought shared similar interests.

'Cyrus, I think you've already met Tess. I think she may be the person you're looking for.' Thérèse looked up, her eyes meeting the chilly gaze of the man she had described to her husband the night before.

He was of medium height, and of a slim, wiry build which gave him a rather angular, bony appearance. She judged him to be no more than forty if that, his dark hair showing very little grey, and his face relatively unlined. She gazed calmly at him, noting his blue eyes fixed upon her. Something about him, as he brought his hand up to shake hers reminded her of another man, a distant memory she couldn't quite connect with.

'Miss McCaffery, I'm delighted to be able to make your acquaintance again' he began, his tone and language underpinning the stiff formality of his body. Suddenly Thérèse felt awkward and gauche, her carefully constructed background story melting before this man like candle wax under a flame. Before she could reply, he had started speaking again, asking her about her thesis, his face becoming more relaxed as she explained.

'I'm trying to get it finished this year' she rushed on, 'I need to work, you see, with the children to support.' She could hear her husband's calm voice now, going through the story with her, another pair of blue eyes anxiously looking at her as she repeated it.

'They will check it out, and there is no way you will be able to hide the fact of our children from them, so try to mention the fact in passing without drawing too much attention to it' he had said.

Blau's eyebrows rose momentarily, and he paused, before putting down his cup on the window sill behind them.

'Permit me to say that you do not look old enough to have a child, never mind . . .'

'Three. I have twin boys and an older girl' Thérèse replied, desperately searching in her mind for a way to return the conversation to less dangerous subjects, but Blau seemed eager to pursue it, staring out of the window and saying 'I'm sure they are very fine-looking children if they resemble you, Miss McCaffery. And their father . . .?'

Thérèse looked down momentarily, her eyes closing and focusing on Illya's instructions. Blau's penetrating gaze pulled her back, making her feel as if the room had somehow moved away, leaving them in a void which no others could enter. She began to turn her wedding ring round her finger, the three inter-twining rings silently moving over each other.

'He's dead. He er, never saw the twins. We've been on our own for a year now since the accident. I . . find it difficult to talk about it . . about him.' Frighteningly, it seemed all too easy to fake the emotions Blau read on her face. An image of Joel Henry from Section 19 walking towards her flashed into her memory, together with the accompanying clutch of a stone hand on her heart as she forced herself to ask him if her husband was dead.

Blau said nothing for a moment, then she felt him place his hand gently on her shoulder, a genuine, or so it appeared, look of compassion etched on the rather gaunt face.

'Miss McCaffery, please accept my apologies for the loss of your husband, and,' he added, 'for my rather crass and unnecessary intrusion into your personal life.' Thérèse smiled, and leant against the wall to glance out at the courtyard below them. A man with rather heavy-framed glasses was sitting on one of the benches positioned to catch the shade of the trees edging the quadrangle, his light-coloured hair plastered down and combed away from his face in an ugly, unflattering style. At the same moment he glanced up, the sun catching his glasses and causing them to glint strangely in contrast to their dark edges. Thérèse couldn't stop herself from gasping slightly.

'Do you know him?' Blau asked, squinting in the direction she was looking. She was suddenly aware of a look of recognition mixed with a kind of interest which was different to the one he'd shown Thérèse as he turned to face her again.

'Um yes. He's actually my neighbour. He's German, or perhaps you know that already?' she said. Blau glanced out again and then smiled.

'Yes, we have met. He's also new here. He seems, what shall I say, a little introverted; perhaps he needs a friend to bring him out of himself' Blau murmured, smiling at Tess.

'Um, you're quite right. I've left him invitations for a few things going on in the neighbourhood, but he prefers to be alone with his books and his music' she replied, a smirk working its way onto her face. In fact the apartment Illya was now supposedly living in bore not a little resemblance to what was now the first floor of their house in Grove Street. She remembered walking round the empty rooms with Napoleon when Illya had been in the Ukraine; the sparseness of the place was indicative of him and his life as it had been lived then. In his bedroom, the tiny wardrobe had held so few clothes it had been somewhat embarrassing to place them with hers, their sombre colours in direct contrast to the riot of colourful and exotic garments in the adjacent space.

'I find it hard to believe that he could turn down the offer of such a charming companion' Blau replied. 'Perhaps he finds children difficult.'

'Perhaps' Thérèse replied. She was wondering how he was going to cope with the tiny apartment they were going to live in now. Perhaps it was as well that he would have 'his' apartment to retreat to when the stress levels rose. Blau seemed to be searching for something in his jacket. After a few attempts, he drew out a card, upon which something formal-looking was printed.

'Miss McCaffery, talking of my country, I wondered whether you would be interested in attending a gathering of a group of us who are interested in preserving our northern European cultural and artistic heritage? It's a formal occasion in the dress sense if you take my meaning, but I think you will enjoy the company.'

Tess took the card, feeling her pulse slightly quicken as she scanned it. At the top, an engraving of an eagle dominated the card, its beady eye somehow holding her in its stare from the creamy card in her hand.

'Er, this Adler Society?' she murmured, looking up at him.

'It's as I said, a cultural society for us Germans and Austrians far from home. You won't be alone; I've even invited your neighbour Mr Krause from the Languages department; perhaps he will escort you if I ask him.' Tess frowned and looked up.

'I'd love to go, but, like Cinderella, I don't really have anything to wear, let alone the money to do anything with this' Thérèse replied, grabbing her hair and twisting it round on top of her head before she let it fall down in a heavy pile down her back. Blau smiled and slightly inclined his head.

'If you would permit me, I will supply the dress, in the best fairy tale tradition' he said gravely. 'I have a Fortuny in my collection which I think will complement your eyes perfectly. As for your hair, I would be happy to pay for you to visit a salon just to be able to see if any hairdresser could improve on perfection, Miss McCaffery.'

Thérèse managed to suppress the laugh she felt coming at his complement, replacing it with a more gracious smile of acceptance. She paused, before placing the card in her shoulder bag.

'Alright then, I can't pass up the chance of wearing a Fortuny, can I?'

She could see Paula Behrens, another lecturer in the Department heading towards her as Blau, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, moved away and out of the room.

'Wow, you certainly know how to turn it on' she said into Tess's ear as she turned to look out of the window again, noting that her neighbour had now disappeared.

'What do you mean?' she said, as the other woman, without any embarrassment, ran her hand through Tess's hair.

'You mean you didn't know? All the other girls have been trying to get him to take an interest since he arrived. You just walk in and he's all over you like a rash' she said, now putting her arm round Tess's waist. Tess had been warned about Paula and as Harriet put it, 'her tendencies' when she had joined the department. The fact that Tess had three children didn't seem to have changed Paula's opinion that she was a legitimate target for her affections, and she had called at the apartment on several occasions in the two weeks Tess had lived there.

Tess gently extricated herself and stared at Paula.

'I don't think so' she replied, 'he's just looking to enlarge his circle of friends and picked on me as a fellow newbie and someone from his part of the world, that's all. Besides, I don't know for sure, but he seemed more interested in my neighbour sitting down in the quad than in me.' Paula smirked, shaking her head.

'You are surely joking' she said, laughing. 'I mean, I can't believe he's interested in that dork you've got for a new neighbour, that's for sure. I saw him going out last night when I called round. He looked like he was wearing a suit some guy from the Y had just given him, and his hair, Jeez, what does he do to make it look like that?'

Thérèse frowned at her description and the image of the man she'd seen below. She had only seen Illya after dark for the first week she had lived in the apartment, and, for the last week, not at all, while no doubt, he prepared for what was to come.

'Well you've seen him at closer quarters than I have, so I'll just have to wait for that pleasure' she replied, putting her hand in her shoulder bag and feeling the invitation there.

'Oh, Paula, are you free this Friday evening?' she said suddenly. Paula's eyes lit up a little, making Thérèse feel rather guilty about her request. 'Um, Mr Blau has asked me to attend a function, and I was wondering whether you'd babysit?'

'What, the gruesome threesome? I'd love to' she said surprisingly. I'll come round early and we can do bedtime stuff, if that's OK with you?'

'Love it' Thérèse said warmly.

xxxxxxxx

'Well, is Cinders going to the ball?'

Thérèse could barely stifle a scream, although whether it was at the fact that Illya was standing behind the door when she came in to her little room, or just at the appalling way he looked, she couldn't really tell. She threw her bag onto the desk at the end of the room, before turning and hugging him. At last she held him back from her slightly, looking him up and down, grimacing in confirmation of Paula's now only too accurate description.

'Paula said you looked like a dork . .'

'And you agree with her.' Illya sighed and then smiled. 'Well, that's good then, my disguise has fulfilled its purpose of appalling my colleagues, even those of dubious tastes.' Thérèse pulled him down onto the small settee that was squeezed into the room at the side of her desk.

'Illya, these clothes you're wearing, they seem horribly familiar' she began. He nodded, a rather triumphant smile on his lips.

'That's because they're the clothes you and your blond friend tried to dispose of last year' he replied, pressing back a lock of hair that had dared to free itself from the plastered mass on his head.

'And your hair is truly hideous. It looks like you haven't washed it for a month' Tess said, gingerly touching the top of his head and then rubbing her hands together as if something poisonous was on them.

'Mm. Well I'm hoping that either Cyrus Blau or probably his delightful wife will take the bait and take me in hand' he replied. 'Now, as I was saying, did he fall for you and invite you to the party, or does he also need glasses?'

'Oh, yes he did, invite me to the party, that is. But Illya, it's not me he's really interested in, at least I don't think so.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that however charming he appeared to me, when he gazed out of the window and saw you, his expression changed; it was as if you were the real object of his affections.'

Illya nodded slightly and exhaled rather deeply.

'It seems then that my disguise is proving rather less offputting than I'd imagined' he murmured wistfully.

CHAPTER 8

'Sure you don't want to be accompanied by your very own personal assistant and legal advisor?' Jo asked, swinging Fabian round her as his father adjusted his bow-tie in the mirror behind them.

'Sure I'm sure. I think two McCafferys might be more than enough for the evening' Napoleon replied, picking up his jacket and putting it on, before flicking off imaginary atoms of dust from the shoulders. Jo put Fabian down, and watched him settle amiably to banging a set of shapes through some wood with a small hammer.

'Where are you meeting her?' Jo murmured, her eyes calm, jewel like in the evening shadows of the room. Napoleon turned and pulled her slightly towards him.

'It's not like before' he said, wishing already that it was her he would be with him that evening, and not the dark-haired banker expecting him at the Arts Club.

'Napoleon, you don't have to say anything, I don't want to know' she said looking at him darkly. 'I knew what you did when I married you, and as far as I understand it, nothing has changed. I love you, you love me, end of.' Napoleon nodded, wondering if there was another woman like her, another woman who would endure the kind of relationship they had. As far as he knew, Kuryakin had not been put in the same position since his marriage, although he had come very close to it with that Russian woman in Gorky. Strangely, the Russian seemed calmer about the possibility of sex with another woman, than he did. He shook his head at the reason for it and found none.

'Yes, you look out of this world - happy?' she continued, moving away from him and lifting the little boy up. 'Say nighty-night to daddy, Fabi' she whispered into the little boy's abundant brown curls as he lunged forward towards his father.

'Ni ni dad' he said in a piping voice, his golden brown eyes glowing faintly. Napoleon kissed him and then lent down, checking that the gun secreted there was safely attached to his leg, before leaving the room, the sounds of his wife and son ending abruptly as the door shut.

Cecilia Luft was waiting in her room at the hotel a few blocks from the Club, her appearance a dramatic contrast to their previous meeting. The formal suit was now replaced by a long black sleeveless dress, fitted under the bust with a stiff bow, her hair swept up into a chignon to complete the austerely beautiful outfit. She had poured two martinis before he entered, one of which she handed to him, before draping a delicate stole round her shoulders. Picking up the other glass he handed it to her.

'Chin chin' Napoleon offered, slightly tapping her glass with his own. 'Let's hope for a very pleasant and successful evening.'

'Oh yes, Mr Zweigart, pleasant and successful, that would be good' she said quietly, her mouth drawing into a thin line before she sipped at the drink.

The evening was establishing itself as their taxi drew up by the Club, the glowing rooms splashing their warmth across the road towards the silent, gated park opposite. Napoleon had entered the public rooms of this place on previous occasions, usually to attend less stressful social occasions. They passed through the main rooms on the ground floor, where he could see that another party was in full swing, a series of round tables laid for dinner, at which the guests sat laughing and drinking, their faces flushed with the excitement and enjoyment of the celebration, and each other. A wide staircase led to the upper floors.

'We shouldn't be disturbed by these others' Cecilia Luft said disparagingly, indicating 'the others' by a slight wave of her gloved hands. 'Our occasion is taking place on the top floor, where the public is not permitted.' Napoleon continued to follow her up, the noise of the party fading away as they passed the library on the first floor. Now shrouded in darkness, the leather couches lurked in the shadows unoccupied, waiting for the readers to return with the new day. Luft seemed unwilling to engage even in small talk until they had reached their destination at the top of the stairs, and eventually he dropped behind her, glancing behind as they walked up. As the staircase turned into the final flight, Napoleon had a direct view down to the floor below. The sound of voices alerted him to the approach of others, as four figures appeared below him.

The first two were arm in arm, a dark-haired man accompanying a tall woman with an elfin hairstyle resembling Josefina's apart from its colour, an intense metallic silver. As she passed through the first floor lobby, Napoleon saw that she was wearing a very tightly fitting purple dress which only served to accentuate her elongated androgynous figure. As they moved out of sight Napoleon paused, waiting for someone he hoped he might recognise. Thérèse appeared a few steps behind the other two and walked across the lobby toward them, wearing a striking and unusual dress of a sort of deep sea colour, striking because it was constructed of tiny pleats which clung to her figure with pleasing effect. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a sort of Grecian style, making her look taller and incredibly elegant. And then Napoleon glimpsed the final figure in the group characteristically running up the stairs to catch the others.

He caught himself groaning under his breath at the appearance of his partner. The badly fitting tuxedo confirmed that it was indeed too small, even for the still slim but now rather more muscular figure of the Russian. His shirt looked clean but worn, contributing to his overall shabby appearance, completed by his now fully grown beard and concreted hair, which Napoleon thought looked as if it hadn't been washed since he had plastered the stuff on Kuryakin's head days before. As Napoleon reached the second floor entrance he saw Illya glance up, a ghostly smile illuminating his lips before he looked down and planted a thick rimmed pair of glasses firmly over his eyes.

Napoleon wrenched himself away from the stairs to see that Cecilia Luft was now speaking to a man at the entrance to the second floor rooms. A small table had been placed there, at which another man sat checking off the guests on a register as they passed through, the man standing behind him giving each a cursory glance before opening and shutting the doors. As he approached the table, it was apparent that his name had already been submitted. He felt Luft grip his arm tightly and propel him towards the opening.

The arrangement of space differed from the ground floor; a series of smaller, more intimate rooms opening onto the corridor to the side of the lobby, whilst a larger and grander area lay directly ahead. At one end of the room, a small stage showed evidence that before long there would be some live music to accompany the proceedings, whilst in another more remote corner of the room a permanent bar was beginning to serve those who had already arrived.

Napoleon could see that Cyrus and Ottilie appeared to know about most of the guests, and were already moving between them, whilst a short stocky man in a hideous tuxedo stood talking to Thérèse in the corner near the bar. Before he could see where Kuryakin had got to, he felt Cecilia firmly moving him towards the area of the room where the Blaus stood, talking to a rather tall man with brown hair resembling wire wool.

'Ah Cecilia, as elegant as ever' Blau began, his gaze immediately moving in the same direction as his wife's, who had fixed Napoleon with a penetrating stare from the moment they had begun to move across the room towards them.

'May I present Mr Marshall Zweigart of Valencia, California. Marshall, this is Cyrus Blau, and of course his wife, Ottilie' Cecilia said in a rather emotionless voice. Ottilie turned slightly and moved closer to Napoleon. Close up, he could see her eyes, a rather chilling light grey strangely matching her metallic hair. Against the colourlessness of her eyes and hair, her bright red lipstick seemed like a bloody gash on her thin pale face.

'Mr Zweigart, Cecilia has told us all about you' she began in a low-toned voice with a hint of an accent. 'I'm so looking forward to a more intimate relationship in the future.' Napoleon glanced at Cecilia, whose unreadable expression rivalled anything his partner could pull.

'I sure hope so,' Napoleon replied, smiling, and aware of Cecilia standing behind him.

'We'll have a little chat later when the proceedings are under way' Cyrus interrupted, 'and in a more private place, Mr Zweigart.'

A long table at the side of the room was in the process of being filled with a selection of canapés, the serving staff then melting away to reveal the splendid display of food. Napoleon guided Cecilia to one of the small round tables clustered round the platform before heading towards the bar. It was obvious that his fellow guests hailed from a diverse number of countries from the sound of the languages being spoken as he shoved forward to place his order. Returning from the bar he could see that Cyrus and Ottilie, together with Tess, had joined Cecilia, a selection of food being brought to the table by the serving staff. Thérèse gave him a long look before turning and whispering something to Cyrus. Napoleon could sense her fear from the look in her eyes and her occasional sharp glances round the room in search for the same person he was hoping to see before much longer, her gaze returning to Blau as he spoke.

Ottilie's piercing stare swept round the table before coming to rest on Thérèse.

'Mr Zweigart' Cyrus began, 'May I introduce you to, er, Miss . . .'

'McCaffery. Therese McCaffery' she interrupted, 'I work in the History of Art Department, at Steinhardt.' Napoleon leaned over and kissed her hand, squeezing it momentarily as he raised his eyes to hers.

'Delighted, Miss McCaffery. It sure is useful to have another art expert on board' he said, suddenly aware that his partner was sitting on the table immediately behind Thérèse, engaged in conversation with a man who looked as if he might be from one of the countries of southern Europe.

Before anything more could be said, a tall blond man appeared behind Cyrus and murmured something into his ear as Napoleon became aware of the noise of an argument taking place in the foyer. Cyrus Blau frowned, and turned back to the others, his fingers beginning to tap a beat on the table.

'Is there a problem? Napoleon said, glancing over his shoulder towards the increasing noise outside the room.

'It appears that we have a guest whom no-one can understand' Cyrus replied in a cutting tone, staring at Solo. 'I thought this had been taken care of.' Thérèse gave Cyrus a look which Napoleon had seen before, usually directed at the Russian when she wanted to subtly remind him of something he should have remembered himself.

'But I believe we may have someone here who can help' Cyrus said, 'you remember I mentioned him to you darling, that other colleague of Miss McCaffery's here.' Napoleon was suddenly aware of both Blaus looking at each other, and then directing their gaze elsewhere. Ottilie's lips pulled into a sneer as she gripped her husband's arm.

'But he is so . . . ugly' she murmured, her nose crinkling as if a putrified corpse had suddenly been dumped on the table in front of her. Cyrus smiled rather unpleasantly and then spoke to the silent blond behind him, nodding in the direction Napoleon was hoping he might nod towards.

'If you employ him you must give him to me first, darling' Ottilie purred, staring fixedly at Cyrus, and luckily not noticing the look on Thérèse's face as Illya approached the table.

Cyrus stood up, facing Illya. Napoleon could see that they were all staring at him now, Tess' stare being dovetailed into the similar expressions of the other members of the party.

'Ah, Herr Krause. May I introduce my wife Ottilie, Miss Cecilia Luft, a business partner, Mr Zweigart from California, and lastly, of course you know Miss McCaffery, do you not?' Illya glanced rather myopically round the table before his eyes finally came to rest on Thérèse.

'Yes, we're acquainted' he said, returning his gaze to Cyrus.

'I wonder, with your knowledge of European languages' Cyrus interrupted rather brusquely, 'whether you could help us out. We appear to have a guest with whom we have a communication problem.' Illya gave a slight nod of his head towards the door.

'I noticed. He sounds as if he is Czechoslovakian, probably from Slovakia. He's probably perfectly capable of speaking German, but is trying to make a point, which,' he added, curling his lips slightly, 'is typical of those of the Slavic race, don't you think?' Cyrus Blau got up and came round the table.

'Come with me' he said, his manner expecting compliance. With a shrug, Illya followed, giving Napoleon a fleeting raise of his eyebrows before he followed Blau out into the foyer.

Ottilie gave a rather theatrical shudder before leaning forward towards Thérèse.

'How do you tolerate such a . . _hideous _creature living next to you?' she hissed, putting her hands to her face, her long, red nails lurid against the pallor of her skin.

'Perhaps he just needs a little help' Thérèse replied, drawing back slightly.

'Perhaps', Ottilie replied, gazing at them both. 'It appears that my dear husband has given _you_ a little help,' she added, her eyes now fixed on Thérèse. 'You certainly bring that old dress to life doesn't she, Marshall?' Napoleon fought back a smile as Tess's eyes flashed, the brown becoming a dark, gold flecked

bronze in the subdued lighting of the room.

'The dress would be nothing without the beauty of the wearer' Napoleon murmured, looking at Tess, then fixing Ottilie with a rather serious expression. The awkward silence was immediately broken by the appearance of the tall blond man again, this time standing behind Ottilie.

'Mr Blau would like you to join him' he said obsequiously, stepping back as Ottilie rose from her seat and giving her a long, lascivious glance. She leaned over towards the others on the table, her pale eyes almost silver, and the antithesis of the woman who sat opposite her.

'I suppose this means that our repulsive little friend has proved himself to be useful' she sneered, before slinking away behind the ubiquitous blond.

Cecilia, who had sat silently during the previous conversation, turned to Napoleon, her hand sliding onto the silver evening bag she had left on the table.

'Will you excuse me for a moment, Marshall, I, er, need to powder my nose.' Napoleon rose, his hand knocking the bag out of her grasp and onto the floor, where with a slight thud it disgorged its contents.

'Oh gee, I'm so sorry' Napoleon said, as Tess immediately squatted down and began to help Cecilia retrieve the scattered objects. Giving Solo a barely concealed glare the Swiss woman walked off through the room and out of the doors.

'Keep up that ridiculous grin you've had on your face all evening' Thérèse said, 'while I just slip you something.' Napoleon raised his eyebrows fractionally before throwing back his head and appearing to share in something exceedingly funny with the petite brunette by his side. As she gently slapped him on the arm and leaned towards him, he felt her press something small and stiff into his hand. Without looking down it was easy to slide his hand into his pocket, before a waiter appeared with what looked like a very good vodka martini in his hand for Thérèse. As he headed for the men's room after a decent interval he caught sight of Tess raising the martini, an imperceptible wink following the raised glass.

It was a small, square envelope made of heavy white paper, within which there

seemed to be an equally heavy and expensive looking card. He glanced down at the card in the safety of the cubicle and let out a low whistle. After standing on the toilet to check for any unwelcome listeners he reached for his communicator.

'Open Channel D. Mr Waverly please, priority.'

xxxxxx

'Ah, Ottilie, we've been waiting for you, _liebling_.' Illya glanced up as Ottilie Blau swept into the small room they were sitting in, surprisingly filling it up with her presence, as she rather gracefully sat down on the sofa next to her husband. The room was one of those opening onto the corridor leading to the larger area where the party was being held, from where Illya could now hear the sounds of a small band beginning to play.

It had been relatively easy to placate the uncommunicative guest, who turned out, as Illya had thought, to be from a part of Slovakia which he knew well, and who he had eventually persuaded to use the German language Illya knew he probably possessed. He was aware throughout it all of Blau standing near and making an assessment, as he longed to thank this Slovakian for making his job a little easier for once. However, as he glanced at Ottilie, Illya knew for certain that her approval was also a requisite in him gaining entry into whatever enterprise these two were so obviously engaged in.

The conversation continued in German, Illya attuned to Blau's Austrian accent which was still audible despite his long exile from his native land. From the beginning it was hard for him not to smile at Ottilie's continuing discomfort at his appearance, which he presumed was the main reason for her involvement.

'Mr Krause, Blau continued after Ottilie had sat down, 'as I was saying before, I think we can offer you a more, shall we say, interesting career advancement than your present position. However, we need to be sure that you are prepared to be completely committed to our, er, business, and to the way we conduct our affairs.' Illya glanced at Ottilie, who was looking at him with unconcealed disdain, before saying,

'And what would be the nature of my 'commitment?' Blau glanced at his wife again.

'What my husband means, Herr Krause, is that while you work for us, you must be prepared to give yourself to us, you know, body and soul.' As the last words left her lips, Illya saw her looking at him again, as if she could remove his clothes and consign them to outer darkness just by gazing at them long enough.

'And if I find this level of commitment not to my liking?'

Blau sniffed slightly, then turned away, coming back to face Illya with a thin paper folder in his hand.

'Then you will find Mr Krause, that your life takes a decided turn for the worse', Blau replied, opening the folder and disgorging its contents onto the coffee table between the two sofas. 'I think you may be interested in these' he continued. 'When Miss McCaffery suggested your name to me as someone whose skills would be useful to our Society, I took the liberty of making a few enquiries.'

Illya glanced at the two images and the written statement in front of him. The first was what he had been expecting; a report from Tübingen University listing his academic history, or rather the history of Dietmar Krause, ending with his rather hasty resignation after an embarrassing affair with the son of the Professor of Theology had gone wrong. UNCLE's connections with University Departments proved useful in providing cover from time to time, but this thought was lost in his shocked reaction to the two images which lay by its side. He snatched up the first one and examined it carefully, picking up the other one before putting them both down slowly onto the table.

They were obviously taken in a club, but one that Illya didn't recognise, except that he was sure it was in England, probably London. Both images showed him, with rather longer and certainly much cleaner hair, wearing what looked like a paisley shirt and dark, velvet trousers. In the first image, he was leaning against the bar, a drink in his hand, smiling rather demurely into the lens of the camera. The second image seemed to have been taken later in the evening, and several drinks later. He was seated this time, but on another, unrecognisable man's lap, engaged in a kiss which caused Illya to be grateful for the shaded lenses hiding his startled eyes.

Ottilie snatched the images up and stared at them, before staring at Illya, then returning her gaze to the photographs.

'Are you sure these are genuine?' she said to Blau, who nodded, amused by catching her out in what was obviously a game she usually won.

'Yes, they have not been tampered with. It seems that Mr Krause is hiding his light under a rather soiled barrel' he replied. He removed the images from Ottilie's grasp and turned to Illya.

'You see, Mr Krause, my wife and I have spent the last twenty years surrounded by beauty. This is our world and we are accustomed to it, as it were. Beautiful objects, works of art, artefacts from around the world. And beautiful people too. We do not enjoy being in the company of ugliness.'

'When I left Europe, I left all that behind' Illya began rather tersely. 'I'm not sure I want to return to it' he said, gesturing towards the images, 'again.' The Blaus glanced momentarily at each other before Ottilie leaned forward.

'Take off your glasses, Didi.' Illya frowned, inwardly fascinated by her choosing to use the diminutive of his name at this point. He hesitated fractionally, before slowly removing the heavy frames and laying them on the table on top of the images. As he looked up, Ottilie gave a slight gasp, her steel eyes widening, before a slow smile began to elongate her thin red lips.

'Your eyes are more alluring than the picture reveals' she purred, before turning away from him and nodding slightly to her husband, leaning over and whispering the words 'you promised' in his ear.

Blau leaned his head slightly to the side and contemplated Illya before shrugging his shoulders and returning the papers to their folder. Illya sat back and closed his eyes momentarily.

'When would you like me to begin' he said, aware of a slow exhaling of breath from the other side of the sofa.

'Oh tomorrow, Mr Krause, it will have to be tomorrow. Ottilie is an expert you see.' Illya sat up, frowning slightly.

'An expert in what?'

'Oh, an expert in taking something that has become, let's say _tarnished_, and restoring it to its former beauty, _ja_?'

Xxxxxx

Illya glanced round the room, frowning at Napoleon's absence. He could see his wife talking to Cecilia Luft. Luft turned and suddenly stared at him in a way that made Illya feel a little perturbed. He came up to the table as they stopped talking as the women looked up at him expectantly.

'Mr Blau would like to speak to Mr Zweigart. Happen to know where he is?' he said rather coldly, addressing them without really appearing to look at them.

'I think he went to the bathroom' Tess said, smiling at him. He appeared to have lost his glasses, or at least taken them off; his eyes momentarily held her gaze before he sauntered off in the direction of the men's room.

'I wonder if he proved helpful, you know, with that man' Tess said, watching Illya weave his way characteristically through the sea of people who were now making their way towards the dance floor.

'Oh, I'm sure he was' Cecilia replied, looking towards her. 'Cyrus always appreciates cleverness, and rewards it.'

xxxxxxx

'Oh there you are; Blau wants to see you, then I'll meet you outside, OK?'

Solo nodded as Illya unzipped his trousers and glanced behind him at the American leaving the room. The images in the London Club were still on his mind, interwoven with the piercing look he had seen on Cecilia Luft's face a few minutes before. It appeared that, whether by luck or design, he had now secured a place in the Blau organisation for himself which was necessary if the plot was to be unravelled. He left the bathroom and began to descend the stairs, the noises of the Adler Society party gradually overwhelmed by the louder music of the gathering on the ground floor. People had spilled out of the main room, and small groups were now either lounging in the foyer, or smoking in the street outside. Illya pushed his way through the melée by the front doors, noticing Solo standing across the street at the entrance to the gated park opposite the club.

Napoleon stubbed out his cigarette as his partner approached, and turned to gaze into the shadows created by the trees.

'Successful meeting?'

'Uh-huh. I persuaded him that not only do I have a very large amount of money to spend on art, and especially on anything by Chagall, but that my political attitudes might be a little right of . . .

'Attila the Hun?' Kuryakin grinned, leaning for a moment on the gate as he looked at Napoleon.

'Precisely. I think there may be something going off on the political front that may explain why they need to make such a lot of dough in such a hurry.' Napoleon said, raising his eyebrows towards Illya. 'So, how did your interview go? I noticed Mrs B making a beeline towards you.'

'Very funny. Well, you will be pleased to know that I am now employed by Blau as a representative and interpreter. He wants me to bring the paintings back from Switzerland, and then act as some sort of interpreter in the sale. He certainly has a novel way of recruitment' Illya concluded, looking sharply at his partner.

'Ah, he showed you the photographs' Solo replied.

'You know about them?' Napoleon turned round and leaned against the gates, facing Illya.

'We realised that they would try and find out about you, when Tess suggested your name to Blau,' he began. 'I just thought we could give them something which they would think gave them a hold over you, that's all.'

'And you never thought to let me in on your plan?'

'We thought it might be more effective if you appeared, well, surprised by them' Napoleon continued, ignoring the scowls radiating from Kuryakin. 'I knew you would guess where they were taken, and probably, how we'd done it.' Illya looked down, still frowning.

'Did you have to involve Misha?'

'He was happy to help out. I thought the shirt was rather fetching – one of his own range he tells me. Did you know he'd gone into fashion design?' Illya sighed, his eyes closing slightly.

'Yes, Tess told me. They keep in touch.' He looked up for a moment, staring into the darkness of the park. 'And before you say any more, we are going to call in on the way to Mallorca, if we manage to sort all this out, that is.'

'Good.'

Illya looked back at Napoleon, noticing that something else was on his partner's mind.

'Is there something else?'

'You could say that' Solo said quietly. 'I managed to accidentally on purpose cause Miss Luft's bag to drop to the floor, where your wife retrieved this.' He drew the card out of his pocket and showed it to the Russian. 'She's becoming rather good at all this spy business' he added, smiling. Illya didn't look up, intent on examining the card. Napoleon could see that as he turned it over, his expression hardened into a pale, rigid mask.

'Yes, too good' he muttered, then looked up. 'I presume you contacted Waverly with the news that our Miss Luft is in some way connected with the Bolt organisation, whatever it is now' he said, handing back the card to Napoleon.

'Oh yes' he replied softly. It seemed rather incredible that after several years of coming up against a brick wall in his attempts to find out what had become of Lee-Hua Bolt and her organisation, a link had more or less fallen literally into his hands from a totally unexpected source. The familiar logo was displayed on the little card, together with a telephone number. There were no names, either printed or written. 'The number, you'll be interested to know, belongs to a clinic near Hamilton, Bermuda; you know, very private, very expensive, very unwilling to divulge any information whatsoever.'

Illya leaned against the railings for a moment, staring across the street. Solo felt as if he could see on the Russian's smooth forehead a series of images flashing past, images too painful and personal even for Napoleon to refer to. It was enough that they were both aware of them.

'What are you going to do?' Illya said eventually, his voice catching Napoleon by surprise after what seemed like an eternity of silence.

'About Luft? Carry on of course. They're sending someone to Bermuda to dig around a bit and see if they can discover the connection. In the meantime, we both have to continue, right?' Illya turned round, his hair, despite the thick grease welding it together, glinting faintly under the street lights.

'And what about Tess?' Kuryakin said hoarsely, 'she didn't see the card, did she?' Napoleon put his hand on his partner's shoulder for a moment, feeling the tension of the body beneath the worn jacket.

'No, and I don't think she needs to be party to any of this' Napoleon replied. 'It may be that if there is a connection to Bolt, they won't have realised who is involved. That's why I need to keep up my burgeoning romance with Miss Luft and you, my friend, need to ingratiate yourself with your new employers.'

'I'm supposed to be meeting her in Geneva before the auction, to collect the goods.'

'I'm sure you'll enjoy that' Napoleon replied, 'she's quite a girl.' Illya stared at him then continued, 'that is after Mrs Blau gets her hands on me.' He could see Napoleon beginning to smirk as he leaned against the railings again.

'About time. I was beginning to think you might take up this look permanently.'

'Well actually, I shall be relieved to get rid of all this' Illya replied, running his hand across his chin. 'In this weather, my head feels as if it's going to explode with the heat. Apparently, Cyrus and Ottilie are unaccustomed to having to be close to unattractive members of society like myself.'

'Ah, well I'm sure that after she's finished with you, you'll be rivalling those boys at Fiennes Court.' Napoleon replied, a smile writhing across his lips at the discomfort of the Russian.

'And what are you going to do while I'm being transformed?' Illya groaned.

'Well, I think I am going to have a long chat with Miss Luft in her hotel room tonight. Depending on what she says, I'll come round and brief you tomorrow, before you head off to the beauty parlor.' Illya grimaced, a frown fixed to his brow in the darkening gloom.

'OK, but between ourselves, remember.'

Napoleon appeared behind Cecilia Luft as the band started to play again, the female singer launching into a rather lingering rendition of 'Misty' as he indicated the dance floor to the Swiss woman. As soon as they were fully immersed in the dance, he felt her grip his arm tightly and move closer until her face was almost pressed into his own as they moved amongst the other couples.

'We'll talk in my room later, if that's alright, Mr Zweigart' she murmured.

'Fine, Miss Luft, say eleven?'

Xxxxxxx

'Drink?'

Cecilia Luft flung down her stole and bag on the bed and with a slight twist of her ankles, released her feet from her shoes as she headed for the fridge. She reached for a glass from the display on the counter, and dropped in some ice cubes, drenching them with some cold bottled water from the remains of the fridge's stock. Ignoring Napoleon, she walked back and threw herself into one of the easy chairs at the other end of the bedroom.

Napoleon poured himself a Bourbon and followed her, looking out the window for a moment, before turning and waiting for her to speak.

'So, Mr Zweigart, Cyrus tells me that you want to join our Society.'

Napoleon put down his glass and leaned on the wall a little.

'If by that you mean I want the art, then you're absolutely right' he said simply. 'Of course I want the art and I can afford it. The problem's always been getting access to anything worth looking at' he began. 'Frankly, I don't give a damn who owned it before, because according to Swiss Law, or so my lawyers say, once I've been the owner for a few years, they're mine just as legit as if I'd bought them on the open market. As for your Society' he added, taking a sip of his drink, 'your friend Cyrus has made a pretty convincing case for the kind of political pressure a group like yours could have on our political system, seeing that the jackasses we have in power at the moment are becoming a little too un-American to get my dollars in any hurry.'

'Yes, so I understand' Cecilia murmured. 'I'm sure you'll be an asset to the Society, Herr Zweigart, especially since you have such an impeccable racial heritage. So, how much do you know about the Swiss banking system?'

'Well, I know it has a reputation for secrecy, but I'm a little sketchy on the history' he replied, smiling a little. She returned his smile, her face slightly softened in the bronze glow of the lamp.

'During the war, it is estimated that the Swiss National Bank may have received up to four hundred and forty million US dollars in gold from Nazi sources, three hundred and sixteen million of it having been looted, probably from Jews in the main part' she began. 'Then of course, there were a vast quantity of confiscated art works, which the Nazis plundered from Museums and also private collectors. Of these, at least twenty per cent have never been returned, a considerable number of which now reside in bank vaults, their provenance unclear. Leaving aside the gold, it is more than likely that dealers in Switzerland colluded with the Nazis in acquiring these works, and then stored them in numbered accounts within the vaults of a number of banks.'

Napoleon gave a low whistle and then steepled his fingers in front of his lips.

'That's quite a haul' he said softly. 'So, excuse my ignorance Miss Luft, but if the art and the money are in the numbered accounts, how are you people going to get your hands on it? I thought those accounts were virtually unassailable.'

'Call me Cecilia' she said, as if it were an order, putting her drink on the floor, and curling her legs round her on her chair.

'Ordinarily, the accounts are virtually impregnable' she continued. 'Information regarding them is restricted to senior bank officers and any claim needs to be accompanied by stringent proof, including death certificates. Numbered accounts are only handled by a small number of select bank employees, and of course no names are used, just code words for each account. However, once the art passes into the hands of other parties, legally speaking, the Swiss accept that any acquisition is deemed legal and permanent if the person purchasing the work did so in good faith and has possessed it for five years, as you said. '

'You haven't answered my question' Napoleon said, finishing his drink and walking back to the bar.

'I've been working for Franck Merkel since I left University, and I've had to fight my way to the position I hold now, Mr Zweigart' she began, a kind of snarl animating her lips. 'I imagine you've heard of the glass ceiling? Well, being a banker, you must be aware of how much that ceiling is in place in the financial sector, as far as women are concerned.'

'But you managed to break through to the top?'

'Not quite. Franck Merkel is a private bank, owned and run by a small, and greedy group of Swiss men descended from the original families of Franck and Merkel, who were apparently brothers-in-law.' Napoleon smiled momentarily.

'Well brothers-in-law can work together very successfully, so I understand.' Luft frowned, before putting down her glass.

'As I was saying, in the case of the present family, as in the case of their ancestors, the scales are weighted heavily against women, however talented. In my case, I was promoted eventually to a position of seniority, but it was made clear to me that I was never to expect anything more than this.'

'And your position gives you access to the numbered accounts?'

'Some of them. I met Cyrus and Ottilie at a bank social occasion. Ironically, Cyrus has accounts there, as do some of his more affluent clients.'

'And now you are going to help Blau to take the art?'

Luft sighed, and looked straight at him.

'Going to? I have been helping him for a little while, Marshall. It was important, of course that some research had to be done first.'

'What sort of research?'

'As far as possible, we've made sure that there are no living relatives who might be trying to trace their property, if you take my meaning' she said. 'There was one man, but that problem was taken care of, and no longer need be of concern' she added. 'The bank holds records of these owners, and so it has been comparatively simple to manufacture death certificates for these people, while I provide the entrée as it were, to the codes and, of course, to the vaults.' Napoleon put down his glass and came to sit opposite her. He was still no clearer as to the eventual purpose of the auction, beyond netting Blau vast sums of money. Whatever it was, the Adler Society was keeping it very close to its chest.

'Of course we will need someone to authenticate and introduce the art at the auction, which is why I presume Cyrus is grooming that McCaffery woman. And then of course, he has had to replace his agent.'

'Why, did he find another position?'

She replaced her glass on the table behind her and gave Solo a long, meditative glance.

'Employees of the Society don't generally find 'other positions' as you so quaintly put it, Marshall. If I remember rightly, his body was found in the Thames, a few miles downstream from where he jumped in; I think it was Waterloo Bridge. Apparently, it's a popular suicide choice in that part of the world.'

Napoleon remained silent for a few moments, before re-filling his glass and returning to the chair facing Cecilia's.

'So' Cecilia continued suddenly, 'that rather odious German Cyrus has just recruited will come calling at the bank soon, and I will help him to walk away with a collection of art worth, in total at least two hundred million dollars.'

xxxxxx

'Napoleon, how much do you know about Darius Blau?'

The communicator had gone off luckily just as he shut the door of the cab. Obviously there was no news yet from the Bermuda regarding Bolt and the Clinic, but Napoleon hadn't expected any. He was faintly surprised when Jack O'Neil's voice from Section Five boomed into the back of the car.

'Um, as far as I understand, he was just a boy at the end of the war, about ten years younger than Cyrus ' he replied, leaning back as the cab made a sharp turn into the traffic.

'Yes, absolutely true. We've been doing a bit of digging around in the Allied military records at the end of the war. It makes interesting reading.'

There was a short silence, allowing a slow spreading feeling of doom to take hold in Napoleon's stomach.

'It seems the boy wasn't with your man Cyrus when he pitched up in England in '49' O'Neil continued, his Irish accent very clear through the communicator.

'Military records? Wasn't he a bit young?'

'Sure he was, but his older brother wasn't, was he now?' Napoleon scratched his head, wondering where this was going. O'Neil was obtuse at the best of times, but now he seemed almost incomprehensible.

'I'm sorry Jack, I don't see how either Cyrus or Darius could possibly be connected to the German military, unless you mean . . . .'

'Now you're catching on, boyo. I don't mean Cyrus; we have clear records to show that he was in Munich at the end of the war, and stayed there until he left four years later. No, I mean big brother, Konstantin.'

Napoleon exhaled slowly, and sat back in the back of the cab. 'So, you have a military record of Konstantin Blau and his youngest brother in '45? He said after a while.

'Precisely. As usual the American boys were a little slow on the uptake as far as spotting the Nazis was concerned. He pitched up at a military centre near Regensberg with the boy in tow, which I guess put them off the scent. Apparently, he used the same surname, but called himself by brother Cyrus' name. He claimed that they were civilians to begin with, and I guess the boy can only have been about six years old, if that. Anyway, this is the interesting part. Guess who the interrogating officer was?' Napoleon stared into the communicator.

'No idea. Go on, surprise me.'

'None other than that big cheese relative of Darryl Moore's up at West Point. Yep, you guessed it, boyo, and I've got it in writing before me, so I have.' There was a slight pause and a rifling of paper before he continued, 'Interviewing officer, Captain Eugene Dawkins.'

'Well, that is very interesting.'

'I thought you might like it. But it gets better. We looked at the lists of German officers processed through that centre. Blau's name does not appear, neither is the boy recorded anywhere either, so obviously that little story about him being taken by the Ruskies is beginning to sound all wrong.'

'Meaning that . . .'

'Meaning that, somehow Blau escaped from that place while he was in detention. Now, as you know, Napoleon, escaping from any military installation is difficult, but escaping with a child is virtually impossible.'

'So. . ..'

'So I did a little investigation into the Brigadier's family background, so I did. He married in '36, and by the time he was deployed into Europe in '44, they were still childless.' Napoleon lent his head back onto the seat of the cab. The night of Darryl's engagement party came back clearly to him, the figures of Eugene Dawkins and his wife stood with the Waverlys, and by their side, the figure of their only child, Michael. He could hear O'Neil talking, but the dawning realisation of what he had just discovered prevented him from speaking.

'Napoleon! Are you still there, boy? Did you hear what I said now?'

Napoleon shook himself and leaned forward as the cab veered round the corner and stopped outside his apartment block.

'Er yes, absolutely. What you're saying is that Michael Dawkins and Darius Blau might just appear to be one and the same person.'


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

Chapter 9

The street outside the apartment building appeared empty, just the occasional yellow cab cruising by a slower moving street cleaner on his way up the road, plus a few shop workers wearily trudging towards another Saturday. Still Napoleon sauntered along the back of the buildings, locating the appropriate fire escape and heading for the apartment which he knew would almost certainly be empty.

The tiny keypad on the frame of the kitchen door allowed his fingerprint, and duly clunked open its lock, permitting him to enter. As he expected, the place was silent, in fact it was hard to tell that anyone was doing any more than just existing in its dull interiors. The lounge was tidy, apart from the pile of books and papers strewn across the table, and a few records propped up on the sofa. He glanced into the larger of the two bedrooms, noting the unused bed and the pile of familiar looking clothes flung down on top of the bedspread, before heading back across the corridor and into the closet.

The diminutive version of the Del Floria changing room performed the same task, propelling him into a similar, but more crowded closet on the other side of the wall. In the darkness he could feel himself walking over what felt like a large assortment of shoes of varying sizes before he managed to push open the door. Instantly he felt his legs being grabbed in a kind of double rugby hold, making it next to impossible for him to move. He looked down.

'Hey, let Uncle Napoleon go now, that's good boys.' He could hear footsteps from the kitchen immediately followed by a stifled scream as Thérèse came face to face with him, Tasiya darting swiftly from behind her and running at him shouting 'Unca Unca' in her usual loud, deep voice.

'What on earth . .? _Illya, viens ici vite!_'

'_Qu'est-ce que_ . . .oh hello, _bienvenue_ to the lunatic asylum. _Valya, Misha, laissez ton oncle maintenant, s'il vous plâit.'_ Illya put down the piece of toast he was holding and managed to drag off the twins from Napoleon's legs, before carrying them under his arms into the kitchen. Napoleon picked up Tasiya and followed, the little girl managing to smear what he imagined was butter into his hair before Thérèse could wrench her hands away.

'Breakfast?' Illya murmured, plonking the boys into their high chairs before going in search of the lost toast.

'Just coffee. I grabbed something on the way.' He could see that Thérèse was glaring at both of them in turn, before she finally secured Tasiya into her chair and sat down.

'Excuse me, but would one of you two mind explaining how he got in here?'

'You haven't told her?'

Illya frowned, before picking up Valentin's spoon and starting to shovel what looked like porridge into his mouth.

'Well I haven't really used it when they've been in before now.' Thérèse came over and wiped off the excess butter from Napoleon's head, before settling down to feed Misha, who Napoleon noticed was amusing himself by smearing porridge over his head.

'Oh look what he's done now' Thérèse sighed, 'and we're supposed to be all dolled up to go out to lunch today. And you still haven't told me how you got in.'

Napoleon pulled her up and showed her the closet. He could hear his partner placating Misha in the kitchen as they stood in the hallway, Thérèse staring at the wall of the closet.

'I need to talk to the dirty guy' he said, shutting the door.

They sat round the table, Illya dumping the twins into the playpen in the corner of the kitchen, before handing Tasiya a large pad of paper and some crayons which she at once set onto with great concentration. He had obviously spent the night with Thérèse and the children, but he looked as if he hadn't washed since the day before, his hair, if that was possible, looked worse than ever, and his clothes a strange mish-mash of worn or creased items obviously selected from the pile Napoleon had seen on the bed in the other apartment.

'Are you going out like that?' Napoleon asked, wrinkling his nose at what he imagined was a sweaty aroma emanating from his partner.

'Of course' Illya replied, smoothing back his hair and smiling. 'I'm just adopting the washing routine we had to use during the winter months on my uncle's farm.'

'And that is?'

'Only expose what you have to and wash what shows.' Napoleon winced and turned to Thérèse.

'And you had him in bed with you?' Thérèse leaned over and put her hand on Illya's.

'He may be a horribly smelly, greasy haired mess, but he's my mess, and I don't know when he'll be, well, in bed with me again' she said, stroking his hand, her long tapering fingers contrasting with his larger, thicker ones.

Napoleon glanced at the twins happily playing behind their parents, their thick blond hair falling in front of their faces as they wrestled for a brick on the floor of the playpen. Thérèse got up and headed for the door.

'Well, I don't have anybody to transform me, so mind if I get ready while you two keep order?' she said, as Illya expertly stole a crayon from Tasiya's stash and started drawing on the pad with it. Napoleon waited until she had left the room and they heard the shower begin to gush in the bathroom, before turning to his partner.

'Er, I've received some information about our friends the Blau family' he began, as he noticed Illya hesitating with the crayon before continuing to draw.

'Oh really. Which members are we talking about?'

Afterwards, Napoleon remembered the background noises which were so normal and domestic, as he related O'Neil's information to his partner. When he'd finished, Illya continued to draw on the paper for a few moments.

'Does Waverly know about this?' Illya said, not looking up.

'Uh-huh.' Napoleon looked at his partner and debated whether to tell him that the old man had seemed genuinely pleased at the news that Tess was likely to be involved in the auction.

'I don't want Tess near them any longer than is strictly necessary' Illya muttered, suddenly breaking the crayon on the paper. 'She may appear tough, she _is_ tough, but she has a very soft heart underneath' he said, his eyes staring at the door she had just gone through. 'Besides, if Michael Dawkins is involved, that could lead to a huge problem for all of us.'

'Quite. I spoke to Waverly regarding this. I can't imagine that either Michael or his father will be involved in the auction. Hopefully, we'll be able to gain enough information to make some sort of judgement after that, and Tess shouldn't need to be involved beyond that either. If she tells them she can't hang around because of the children, then hopefully, we can bring things to a successful conclusion without this getting out of hand. I've even had an idea about how we can return the family back to Grove Street and give her a little protection at the same time.' Illya sighed.

'Well I hope it's a bit better protection than the last time' he groaned, a sudden image of their former colleague and traitor Jordan Lawrence flashing across his memory. 'I had to kill the last so called protector, if you remember.'

'I'll speak to her about it' Napoleon replied, 'it'll come better from me.'

'You mean she'll listen to you, I suppose' Illya said, getting up. He glanced at his watch, and then snatched up the wine-coloured jacket that was carelessly slung across the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

'So' he said, as he pulled the jacket on, 'I suppose we can assume from all this that Konstantin Blau is alive, but if Michael is Darius, then just how involved are the Dawkins family in all this?'

'Well there's only one way to find out' Napoleon replied. 'Unfortunately, since we're both heading out tomorrow, it doesn't really give either of us any time to do anything, does it?' Illya frowned, his appearance causing Napoleon to momentarily forget the problem in favour of shaking his head at the hideousness of his partner.

'Forget my appearance for a moment, if that's possible' Illya said. 'Why don't you ask the most obvious person to gently pry into Brigadier Dawkins' history?'

'And who might that be?' Illya smiled.

'Well, my protégé of course, Darryl Moore.'

xxxxxxx

In the bedroom, Thérèse was forcing a t-shirt over Valentin's head while Misha happily bounced up and down inside one of the cots in the room the three children shared with their parents. She handed him to Illya while she gently lifted Misha out of the cot and sat him on her knee to put on his socks.

'Aren't you hot in that jacket?'

Illya shrugged. 'Yes, but this is my last opportunity to wear it, so I'm making the most of it.' He started to smooth down Valentin's hair while he watched her fit the diminutive socks over the other little boy's feet.

'Their hair is a mess, I just haven't had time, now that I don't have the help . . ' Her voice faded away as she smiled at her husband and the two diminutive versions of him all looking at her.

'Listen, Teresita. I probably won't be back until tonight, but Napoleon's arranging something which should allow you to return to Grove St soon. He'll explain.' He leaned across and kissed her. 'I'm sorry about all this' he added, wrinkling his nose, 'I'll be a new improved model by the time you see me next.'

'The old model will do just fine.' Thérèse murmured, stroking his beard, 'just fine.'

xxxxxxx

'So, remember, no heroics, and you have your back-up now, OK?' Thérèse nodded, vainly trying to force Valya's hair into some sort of order. She looked at the kitchen clock, and sighed audibly.

'Look at the time! I still haven't got Tasiya sorted, and I can imagine what that Ottilie woman is going to say when she sees these two' she said, just preventing Misha from grabbing a crayon from Tasiya's table. Napoleon looked at the twins, then glanced at the clock, before lifting them both into their high chairs and fastening them in, fending off a mighty glare from Valentin in his direction.

'You deal with madam here, and if you find me a comb and some scissors, I'll make new men of these two' he said smiling.

'Really? You never said you could . . .'

'Cut hair? Well, like all Italian Americans, I have a barber for an uncle. Think Frank, only thinner and scarier.'

'Illya never said anything.'

'That's because he doesn't know. Let's say, it might unsettle him, if you take my drift.' Thérèse grinned, and lifted Tasiya up.

'I bet you were tempted though to . .'

'Oh yeah. But in order to get that near, I'd have had to slug him, or someone would have to drink him under the table first.' Thérèse went to the kitchen drawers and drew out a small comb and some scissors.

'Good luck. I'll come when I hear the screams.'

'Whose?' Napoleon laughed, 'theirs or mine?'

Xxxxx

Illya squinted up into the sunshine. The day was beginning to rev itself up into a stiflingly hot morning, as if the buildings and even the street were combining to radiate heat onto him from all sides as he made his way along the side of the park and crossed the road. By the time he reached the familiar carriageway to the Dakota building, his body was pouring with sweat, rivulets of which were now running down his face and into his beard. He dragged out a rather crumpled handkerchief and wiped his face, before walking purposefully to the staircase on the opposite side of the inner courtyard. As he checked the card on which the address had been printed, he knew that someone had noted his presence and was waiting.

He took the steps two at a time and arrived on the second floor as the door to the apartment swung slowly open to reveal a young woman in a sort of uniform he'd seen in beauty parlours he'd had the misfortune to visit on rare occasions when his job had required it. Her expression caused him to force back a smile that threatened to break out on his face as she stood there waiting for him to reach her. If she had trodden on something too horrible to contemplate, her face could not have been more pained. She leapt back slightly when he came up to her, as if whatever he had might be catching.

'Er, Mr, er Krause?' she squeaked, incredulously. Illya peered at her, wondering where he'd seen her before. As she flattened herself against the wall behind the door, he remembered. It was on the top floor of Schwarz's toy shop on Fifth Avenue, staring at a display of Barbie dolls with Pascale. The cupid lips and fake looking dark hair of the little doll were perfectly reproduced by the pouting girl next to him. He sighed and walked down the corridor towards two massive open doors from where he could hear the unmistakeable tones of Ottilie Blau issuing orders to another, as yet invisible minion.

The room behind the doors was one of several inter-connected to each other, this one set out magnificently in antique style, the French furniture perfectly complimenting the pale grey panelled walls and the high, ornate ceiling of the room. Across a long wide chaise longue by the window, an assortment of clothes were draped, while nearby Ottilie stood with another, this time, male version of the Barbie doll who now simpered behind him in the doorway.

'Oh hello Mr Krause. Won't you come in?'

'Said the spider to the fly' Illya murmured to himself as he stepped into the room.

Ottilie's male assistant gasped rather theatrically, before turning, wide-eyed, towards her, a look of tacit acknowledgement on his face indicating that he had been warned what to expect. Illya looked around him. Apart from the clothes strewn across the chaise longue, there was absolutely nothing out of place in the room, nor in the adjacent rooms which he could glimpse from where he was standing. The place reminded him of an ornate dolls' house rather than a home; everything, from the delicate foreign furniture to the ostentatious curtains which framed the windows, the exquisite rose bowl overflowing with fat blooms, to the beautiful antique rugs covering the floors, seemed too perfect to be messed up with humanity, especially humanity looking like he did. He thought of his home in Grove St, with its friendly clutter, evidence that a family lived there happily at ease with each other, and shuddered inwardly at the sterile flawlessness he stood amongst in this apartment.

The two assistants, who, to Illya's amusement, turned out to be called Raymond and Raylene, continued to hold well back, competing with each other for looks of pantomime horror at his appearance. Ottilie, however, glided forward until she was close enough to grasp his hand and pull him into the room. Her clothes, tight black leather trousers and a cerise coloured figure hugging top made of some thin, silken material, only served to emphasise her rather lean, boyish physique. The pale eyes and face were again enlivened by make-up which Illya was sure had been applied by one of the two human dolls standing gaping behind him. Her movement seemed to jerk the other two into action; they drew up behind him, surrounding him as Ottilie drew him into the centre of the room.

There was a slight pause, before Ottilie said suddenly,

'Go with them', before turning away, adding, as she reached the door, 'and summon me when he is . . . . ready', waving her hand dismissively in Illya's direction. Before he could think of anything remotely caustic to reply, he felt himself being gingerly propelled towards the door at the end of the room.

The bathroom was, like the rest of the apartment, richly appointed, its dark wood set off by the plain white tiles surrounding a large, high sided bath over which a shower hung, the shower head large and inviting. A huge white sink stood at the side, above which an impressive array of toiletries and shaving equipment was displayed. Illya grimaced slightly and walked towards the bath, thankful that at least Raylene had disappeared leaving Raymond hovering behind him. Keeping Illya in his sight, he reached into a narrow cupboard and drew out a soft white bathrobe and several matching towels, which he lay over the sink behind him.

'I can manage by myself now, thank you' Illya said, taking off his shoes and dropping his jacket on top of them, as Raymond pulled out something else from the cupboard.

It was a large bag, which he opened and threw in Illya's shoes and jacket. Illya frowned and hesitated, before shrugging his shoulders and beginning to take off the rest of his clothes, Raymond throwing them into the bag as each item was discarded. He could feel the other man's eyes on him as he removed his shirt and trousers, a little gasp greeting the appearance of his still healing back, or so he presumed. Raymond walked round him and leaned in to turn on the shower.

'Make sure you use these products' he said in a rather affected drawl, 'I'll be back shortly to see how you're getting on'. He gave Illya a lingering glance before saying, 'glasses'.

'Sorry?'

'Your glasses. Oh, for goodness sake . .' Raymond leaned forward towards Illya and yanked off the thick framed glasses from the Russian's face. For a few seconds they faced each other, before Raymond murmured, 'Oh my' in a soft voice. Illya sighed and climbed into the bath. For once, he thought, it would be nice to shower without someone barging in on him. He grabbed the soap and began to systematically wash himself, not caring who was there in the sheer pleasure of being clean again, letting the water cascade over his head for some time before he grabbed the shampoo bottle and poured it onto his hair, rubbing vigorously until it felt more like its natural self.

By the time he turned round again, Raymond had disappeared, leaving him alone. He grabbed one of the towels and wound it round his head, before drying himself with the other. As he reached for the bathrobe, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink, his beard and the towel making him look vaguely exotic. He rubbed his hand across his beard and then scanned the shelves, pulling open a small drawer and pulling out a pair of scissors before his arm was caught in a tight grip from behind.

'Ah ah ah' Ottilie murmured in his ear, 'Raymond will see to that.' Illya turned round to face her, pulling the towel off his head. Ottilie blocked his way, her eyes appraising him as he leaned against the sink. She leaned forward and started to run her fingers through his hair, raking it back off his forehead with purple nails as she pushed slightly against him.

'I thought that photograph of you was fake' she hissed, 'now I think it didn't do you justice, Didi dear.'

'I'm so glad you're not disappointed' Illya replied icily. Her face was suddenly close to his, her cerise coloured lips almost brushing his as her eyes bored into him. Then suddenly she stepped back, stroking his chin with one of her hands, then running her fingers up over his ears.

'But first, this will have to go' she said, pulling him out of the room into a short corridor. The adjacent door was already open, and Illya sighed as he saw what awaited him inside.

The room was centrally placed between the two others and could be accessed from either room or from the corridor. It was immediately apparent that the Blaus spared no expense on the pampering of their own bodies, from the expensively appointed bathrooms to this shared area, which looked exactly like a high class beauty salon in its fittings and ambience. One wall was completely taken up with an enormous fitting of mirrored cupboards and glass shelves, upon which an Aladdin's cave of beauty products were displayed carefully organised, he noted into masculine and feminine, although he was sure that many of the treatments Raymond and Raylene offered were for both Mr and Mrs Blau.

A number of different machines, large and small, were arranged on another wall, some of them whose purpose was not entirely clear to Illya. He raised his eyebrows momentarily, thinking of their own bathroom, the cabinet stuffed with an assortment of Tess's things and a few of his own. His shaving time, when he was at home, was often witnessed now by at least one of his children, even, very recently, the twins coming in and standing fastened to his legs as he scraped the soapy foam from his face. Here, however, the art of beautification had reached epic proportions from the look of the couch, or was it a chair, that stood facing a large mirror on the remaining wall. Illya grimaced a little at the look of it. It reminded him of a strange mixture of barber's chair, something one might find in the Dentist's surgery, and operating table. It was obviously capable of having sides, if necessary, but also of being entirely flat. And above it, suspended on the ceiling, was a light reminding him of the one in UNCLE medical which had witnessed his body being repaired on more than one occasion. This one, however, seemed to be capable of infinite variation between blinding and barely visible.

Both Raymond and Raylene were in the room, and both were busy. Raylene had pulled a little wheeled cart to her side, and was loading it with what looked like impedimenta connected with nails, which Illya recognised from various things left round the bedroom after Tess and Frankie had indulged in what they called a 'girl's night'. Raymond seemed to be gathering instruments for an altogether different part of Illya's body.

'Here he is' said Ottilie cheerfully, a rather superior, amused look on her face as the two assistants stared at Illya. 'You see, you wouldn't believe me, would you?' she added in a sarcastic tone, as Raymond picked up what looked like a remote control device and pointed it towards the centre of the room. The couch immediately responded, the back rising up with a purring sound until a slight clunk signalled it was in the correct position, the arms having come into place at the same time. Illya cringed slightly as Raymond patted the seat of the now chair and beckoned him forward.

'Am I not allowed any clothes?' he said, pursing his lips at the expression on Raymond's face.

'Later, Didi darling. You don't want to get all this over a five hundred dollar suit now, do you?' Ottilie crowed, enjoying the tight look appearing on his face as she tugged his beard. She waited until he had reluctantly sat down and Raymond had, with another flamboyant gesture, covered him with a large white cape, before leaning over him and saying 'get rid of all this on his face. Now, as to this' she continued, laying her hand on his head, 'Just a fraction off here' she indicated, imprisoning part of his fringe between two of her fingers, 'no more. I need him to keep it long for our . . entertainment.' Illya saw Raymond's eyes narrow slightly, a look of pity and a little fear entering them as Ottilie withdrew her fingers from Illya's hair and slid out of the room.

Illya felt the back of the chair go down a little as he tried not to sigh too deeply. Usually, it was his partner who was on the receiving end of this sort of treatment, and Illya vowed he would never again complain when his usual assignment of 'the dirty guy' as Napoleon so often termed it, was allotted to him. He had quite enjoyed playing 'the dirty guy' for a week or so, but now he wished that getting cleaned up hadn't been quite on this level. He sighed again and closed his eyes as he felt Raymond begin to trim away his beard, before shaving foam was liberally swished round his face, and Raymond moved in closer. Perhaps he could use the time to think about the added complication that knowing about Cecilia Luft's connection to Bolt had made to the mission and his life.

He knew that following this little interlude, he would be briefed by Blau before going to Switzerland. He would meet up with Napoleon in England, and he hoped that before then, his partner would be able to find out more about the link between Luft and Bolt Enterprises. Obviously, or so he thought, the Blaus had no knowledge of Luft's connection with Bolt, and with a sinking heart, he imagined that the connection was going to have a dramatic import on what happened next. If what he suspected was true, he was going to Switzerland to help a possible partner of the woman who had nearly killed his wife and kidnapped his daughter, to defraud not only a major Swiss bank, but the original owners of the works of art, and even the members of the Adler Society themselves. And then there was Michael Dawkins. He breathed in deeply as he felt his hand being taken and a nail file applied to what he had to admit were his rather broken nails.

'You have strong, manly hands Mr Krause' Raylene began, Illya being glad that a hot towel was now across his face to cover whatever smirk was on it.

'Really. I hadn't noticed' he said.

'Oh yes, but your nails, oh my, they are so _rough_, you naughty boy'. Raylene, or Barbie as Illya was beginning to think of her now gave a sort of high-pitched giggle, luckily unable to see Illya's eyebrows being raised before the hot towel was ripped from his face.

'Leeni, wait a minute' Raymond interjected, as the chair righted itself. Illya stared at himself in the mirror, mildly impressed by the quality of Raymond's shaving. For a moment all three of them remained still, before Raymond let out another 'Oh my', his long eyelashes fluttering as Illya shook his head slightly to return his hair to its usual position.

'Something wrong?' he said innocently. Raymond's eyes widened and, grabbing the comb from the side, he said 'Gee no, I just can't get over . . . how different you look, Mr er . '

'Call me Didi' Illya said, as Raymond started to comb his hair. Raylene, or 'Leeni' as Raymond called her, was now fully into her stride with the nails, massaging his hand with some cream before plunging it into some sort of liquid, thus making it difficult for Illya to concentrate on what Raymond was about to do with his hair. With some grace, they swapped sides, like a strange dance, Leeni starting on the other hand, while Raymond combed Illya's fringe forwards and, to his consternation, began to gently snip across his forehead, in concert with the steady rasping sound of the file on his nails, releasing a tiny shower of blond hair onto the Russian's lap.

Illya was just considering himself lucky that at least most of his hair was still intact on his head when he felt the chair flattening itself under him, until he was lying flat, the siblings' faces looming over his own like two large mannequins. Without warning they seemed to disappear from his view, before he felt his hair being encased in some sort of wrapping and almost instantaneously what felt like hot mud being applied to his face in deft circular movements. Closing his eyes and trying not to groan too loudly, he felt glad that at least Napoleon wasn't a witness to all this.

As the mud set into what felt like concrete on his face, the distant sound of the front door opening forced his eyes open again. He ignored the steadily hardening sensation on his face and strained to listen. He could hear Ottilie Blau's deep but female tones and then, as he continued to concentrate, the deeper, guttural voice of Cyrus Blau. However, there were now two other voices in the room down the corridor, one of which he recognised instantly.

'Is Mrs Blau expecting guests?' he mumbled with difficulty, trying not to sound as if he really wanted to know.

'Um, actually, well, seeing as you're on the payroll as it were' Raymond began, making Illya jump slightly as he began to pluck a few stray hairs from his eyebrows; 'yes, he's been over to collect Miss Luft and, I think she has a gentleman friend with her.'

Illya sighed. 'And I can guess who that is' he murmured, _sotto voce_. He looked up. Raylene, much to his relief, began to remove the concrete with a series of warm wet cloths, Raymond diving in almost immediately with some lotion, which he massaged into Illya's face before restoring him to a more dignified sitting position. He had to admit that Raymond had made quite a good job of his hair, considering that most barbers complained about how difficult it was, not that he went near them very often for them to complain.

'You like it?' Raymond asked, looking a bit worried.

'Yes, it's fine' Illya said. 'Now, I know you probably had other designs on me, but can I take a rain check on them if I promise to come back later?' He looked down at his nails and hands, now looking considerably improved, and wondered if he'd been rash in making the promise.

'Oh, we suppose so' Raymond said, looking at Raylene.

'If you really mean it' Raylene added. 'We promised Mrs Blau we would make you perfect, and well, you're almost perfect, but there are a few more treatments . . .'

'Well I'll tell Mrs Blau that achieving perfection takes a very long time' Illya replied helpfully. He stood up and pulled away the cape, shaking his hair while Raymond attempted to sweep the remaining strands away from his neck with a soft brush. They both stood back admiringly, as if he were a work of art that they'd just finished, like the ones lining the walls in the other rooms of the apartment.

Raymond led him into a small guest bedroom, where his new clothes had been laid out. As Illya approached the bed, the other man hesitated at the door.

'You will come back, won't you?' he said quietly, 'only Leeni and I, well, we'd like to see you again.' Illya put down the shirt he was holding and turned.

'Are you coming to England?' he said, trying to work out why they should care.

'Oh yes, we travel most places with Mr and Mrs Blau. It's just that,' he came closer to Illya, a kind of worried fear lurking in his eyes, 'they've had people before, you know, working for them, and, well, they don't come back.' Illya shrugged slightly and sat down on the bed.

'And why do you think that was?' he said softly. Raymond wandered over to the window and looked down on the courtyard below.

'Because, in some way, they _displeased_ them' he said simply. Raylene and I, that's why we wanted to do a good job for you, Didi. We don't want to displease them.'

'And you won't' Illya replied. 'Look, you have done a good job on me' he added, looking into the mirror, 'and I'm sure they'll be pleased, very pleased.' He picked up the shirt again, and dropping his bathrobe, started to put it on.

'Raymond?' Raymond turned from beginning to open the door, his eyes taking in Illya. 'When we get to England, perhaps we'll have another chat, yes?'

'Yeah, sure, Didi' Raymond replied. 'I'll fix your hair again as well if you like'. Illya sighed. 'Um, possibly. We'll talk then.'

Illya turned back to the bed and pulled on the underwear, shirt and trousers, before sitting down to put on the delicate silk tie which had been left with the suit. He was wary of confiding too early in Raymond, but there was obviously a lot that he knew about Blau which could be useful. As he started to tie the laces on his shoes he heard the door open imperceptibly again. Not looking up, he continued tying the other lace.

'How did you manage to get in on the act?'

Napoleon slid into the room and quietly shut the door.

'And the ugly duckling became a swan and lived happily ever after' his partner retorted, coming up to Illya as he stood up, and gently swinging him round. Kuryakin sighed and reached out for his jacket, which Napoleon handed him after inspecting the label inside it.

'Do you realise where this suit comes from?'

'No, and I have no interest in knowing. Now, will you answer my question before someone comes looking and finds us together' Illya replied sharply.

'OK, I just decided to go visit my friend Cecilia after I'd finished with your girl, and Blau arrived. They've obviously got a meeting arranged and you're invited, so Ottilie and I are going out for lunch with guess who, your wife, while you do the business.'

'You have a hard life' Illya replied, raising his eyebrows. Napoleon smiled, then flicked his partner's very neat fringe.

'Now don't complain' Napoleon replied, 'it looks as if Hansel and Gretel have been working hard on you all morning.' Illya sighed, and headed for the door.

'Yes, well I'll tell you about that later' he said. 'Meanwhile, we'd better get back before the Wicked Witch notices that we're both missing at the same time.'

As if on cue, they were just in the corridor when Ottilie Blau appeared. She had changed into a silk shift dress of a deep heliotrope colour, matched by astonishing earrings of what to Napoleon looked like high quality amethyst and diamonds. Ignoring Napoleon she drew Illya towards her and then, as Napoleon had done only a few moments before, turned him round as she touched his hair and face. Napoleon could see that the Russian was getting very bored with these attentions, his face assuming a tetchy expression which Napoleon knew well. However, Ottilie seemed triumphant about her transformation success, and began to drag Illya towards the room which acted as an office cum library, seemingly unaware of the tightly drawn lips on the man following her.

Cyrus and Cecilia were occupied poring over some papers on the very large table in the centre of the room, but they turned as the other three entered, Cecilia's face showing a kind of amazed shock at the change in Illya's appearance.

'_Gott in himmel_, Ottilie, I would never have believed that . .'

'such an odious looking man could turn into this?' Ottilie said, as if Illya wasn't in the room. She smiled rather unpleasantly before continuing, 'to be honest with you, I wasn't sure, but the results are incredible, are they not?' Cecilia came across to where Illya was standing and stared at him.

'You shouldn't have hidden your golden light under such a dirty little barrel' she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. He shrugged, meeting her stare.

'Sometimes it is preferable to hide who one truly is, at least for a while' he replied, noticing her frown imperceptibly before assuming her normal, hard expression.

'Good' Cyrus concluded. 'You look ready, Mr Krause, to represent the Adler Society at the bank on Tuesday.' He paused, as Raymond, now wearing a more formal suit, entered the room with a tray of coffee complimented by a long plate of tiny, delicate pastries. Raymond poured the coffees before withdrawing, giving Illya a winsome smile as he left the room which Napoleon noted. The talk drifted from one subject to the other during coffee, Illya being glad that at least the subject of his miraculous transformation seemed to have been dropped. Finally, after Raylene this time had collected the coffee things, Blau got to his feet.

'I understand that you're meeting Miss McCaffery for lunch' he began, as Cecilia walked over to the table and began to place some files from her briefcase onto the table.

'Yes indeed, I'm looking forward to getting to know her better' Napoleon said in a genial way, 'and the children of course.'

'Ah yes, the children' Ottilie said rather mysteriously. 'That would suit Michael, wouldn't it darling, an instant family.' Napoleon glanced at his partner, who, as he expected, had a neutral expression plastered all over his face.

'Michael?' Illya managed to interject, hiding behind the rather elegant glasses that had obviously been provided to compliment the suit he was wearing. Blau uttered a rather guttural sound, before replying,

'We'll discuss that later, in England perhaps? I must admit that she is a highly intelligent woman; in fact, she could be very useful to us. Did you know, Cecilia, that she obtained the best first at Oxford in Art History for five years?'

Napoleon raised his eyebrows, looking straight at Illya.

'You don't say!' he said. Illya's face had now assumed rock like proportions, whether because of the comment about the children, or because he hadn't told Napoleon this fact about Thérèse, he wasn't sure. At any rate, Napoleon knew he wouldn't be pleased to hear any suggestion of drawing Tess further into the web of the Adler Society, for whatever reason.

'You have no children?' he said to Ottilie, trying to take the conversation away from Thérèse and give Illya a break, at least for a few moments. She frowned deeply before answering,

'Children don't really fit in with our lifestyle, Marshall. I'm amazed anyone of Thérèse McCaffery's intelligence and beauty would be conned by a man into having so many of the . . . things. He must have had some special power over her, I suppose.'

'Yeah, she told me he was a really swell guy' Napoleon offered, smiling in Illya's direction.

Cecilia began to drum her fingers slightly on the table, indicating that the meeting should begin. Ottilie sauntered towards the door, glancing at Napoleon as if he were a small pet dog who would instantly follow if commanded.

'I'll be a short time, if you would like to wait in the salon' she said, disappearing out of the library. Napoleon got to his feet, and then, with a swift glance at his partner, managed to slide his cigarette case onto the floor as he walked out behind her.

'Oh, excuse me for a moment' Illya began, 'Mr Zweigart has left this behind', walking out of the room before they had the opportunity to provide an alternative solution.

He found Napoleon in the salon, staring out of the window.

'There you are. Look after her, please.' Napoleon turned round and looked at his partner.

'Of course. By the way, what was all that about her degree? She sounds cleverer than you, comrade.' Illya smiled, the glint of the sun on his head making him look quite cherubic in the morning light of the room.

'I . . knew about her first class honours, if that's what you mean, but not the rest' Illya said, frowning. 'I'm wondering why she never thought to tell me.'

'Perhaps because she thinks there should only be one major star in the Kuryakin firmament' Napoleon replied, amused at the Russian's rather worried expression.

'Do you think so?'. Napoleon gently cuffed Illya over the head before turning back to the window. 'Sometimes I wonder about you two' he added. 'Now, go concentrate on the task in hand, and I'll worry about the ladies.'

'As per normal' Illya replied, walking towards the door. He turned as he grasped the door knob. 'I meant it. If they hurt her then I'll . .'

'I know, and they won't.'

CHAPTER 10

He could see her coming from quite a way along the street, the wide push-chair like a little chariot pushed by the girl with the electric hair and the infectious smile. Napoleon slouched back into his chair outside the restaurant, and blew out his cheeks, before taking a sip of the bourbon Ottilie had ordered as they waited. As they approached, he was suddenly struck by the stark contrast between Kuryakin's girl, as he liked to think of her even now, and the woman sitting opposite him.

Ottilie Blackthorn, it was true, could be classed as a beautiful woman. She was tall, with a figure that some might find attractive in its athletic, lean build. Her face had a classic beauty, her regular features dominated by her large, grey eyes and her full lips. But there was a brittleness about her that Napoleon, who knew exactly what he liked and what he didn't like about women in general and this woman in particular, found distasteful. The colour of her hair and eyes gave her a metallic look, cold steel when compared with the living, warm beauty of the woman fast approaching behind her. While his own wife, Josefina was as near to perfection in a woman that Napoleon had ever encountered, he still found Thérèse an astounding mixture of exuberant loveliness, and he couldn't help but smile as he thought of his most precious partner with her, the man of ice melted by her devastating warmth.

He leapt to his feet and came towards her, praying that Tasiya was not going to be as articulate as she usually was. But the little girl was unusually quiet, preferring to hide amongst the folds of her mother's rather demure dress. Thérèse picked her up and Napoleon noticed that the little girl's face was puffy with recent tears.

'She didn't want to leave the zoo' Thérèse murmured, her face suddenly sad. 'Luckily, the boys were unusually well behaved' she added; 'must be the rather smart haircut someone gave them.' Napoleon smiled, squeezing her arm gently as she bent to extract the little girl from her hiding place in her dress. 'I didn't know that Marshall was joining us' she said, rather more happily, 'Marshall, this is my daughter, Anna, and my boys, Michael and Valentine.'

Strains of opera music seeped out from the restaurant, as they took their seats round the table. Napoleon made room for the pushchair, noticing that luckily the boys were both fast asleep, their blond heads touching. As he gazed at them, it was so easy to see his partner fast asleep in a hundred different places they had shared together over the years, his face, as theirs were now, in calm repose whilst all around might be in utter chaos.

'Charming' Ottilie remarked, her face saying something rather different. 'But they don't seem to take after you very much, if you don't mind me saying' she added, looking at Tasiya, who was now welded to her mother, her head sunk between Thérèse's breasts. Thérèse stroked the little girl's hair and kissed her head, finally managing to get her to turn round a little. She looked so like Illya that Napoleon was amazed that Ottilie didn't see the resemblance.

'They look like Bill' Thérèse said quite naturally, 'I think he had a bit of Viking blood which would explain the colouring' she explained.

'Ah Viking blood' Ottilie remarked quietly, glancing at the boys, now blissfully unaware of anything in their little chariot.

As they waited for the meal to arrive, the music seemed to reach a crescendo.

'What is that?' Ottilie finally said, looking at Napoleon.

'It's Puccini; Tosca, you know' Thérèse interrupted, much to Napoleon's relief. 'This is Act Two, where Scarpia demands that Tosca surrender herself to him, body and soul, to save her lover, Mario.' As if on cue, a soprano voice began, the music spilling out as Thérèse explained the story. 'You see, this is 'Vissi d'arte' - _Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore,__non feci mai male ad anima viva!_

'I lived for art, I lived for love, I never did harm to a living soul! ' 'Tosca is railing against God here for allowing her to give her honour away for the sake of the man she loves.' There was a silence among them as she spoke, as if they had all noticed the rapture in her face at the music, and Napoleon, the strange aptness of the words to the woman who spoke them.

'And do you approve of her sacrifice?' Ottilie said, grasping her arm slightly. Thérèse turned towards her.

'Approve? I've never thought of it in that way. But I understand it, yes, I understand it.' Something about the proprietorial way in which Ottilie gripped her arm disturbed Napoleon.

'And how does it end?' Ottilie said sharply, her black sunglasses sinister as they reflected the woman across the table in their opaqueness.

Thérèse hesitated, then, in a calm voice murmured, 'Ah, it ends so sadly, I'm afraid. Murder, execution, suicide. It ends in death.' Afterwards, Napoleon thought he might have imagined it, but as he looked at Thérèse, her eyes suddenly seemed to lose some of their light, and she looked down, her face brushing the flaming hair of her daughter.

Thankfully, the meals arrived in time to lighten the atmosphere, Tasiya not allowing a little upset to get in the way of eating what seemed like a very large portion of spaghetti for a little girl. Napoleon smiled and whispered in Tess' ear, 'like father like daughter', before engaging Ottilie in desultory conversation about California, where he felt on safer ground than on the subject of Italian opera.

After the meal, Thérèse removed Tasiya to the rest room inside the restaurant, the little girl's mouth now surrounded by a halo of tomato coloured liquid strangely matching the colour of her hair. Ottilie glanced at the retreating pair before turning to Napoleon.

'You mentioned a Michael back at the apartment' Napoleon began. 'Is he a member of the Society?'

Ottilie leaned forward suddenly, the two of them drawn into a conspiratorial huddle as she contemplated him across the table.

'Cyrus will brief you about Iowa' she hissed, 'I'm sure you were wondering about the ultimate aim of all this.' She glanced across into the restaurant again, her face at once superior and cold.

Napoleon had remained silent as she spoke, wondering how on earth somewhere like Iowa could be connected with a bank fraud in Switzerland, a private and illegal art auction in England, and Michael Dawkins.

Just then, his concentration was broken by Thérèse's return to the table with Tasiya, who now looked slightly cleaner and happier than she had been minutes before. Seeing him, she suddenly reached out, Napoleon lifting her up and pulling her towards him to stifle the usual 'Unca Poly' mantra before it became noticeable.

'I'm afraid we have to go' Thérèse said, as the twins simultaneously woke up, a look of pained anticipation filling their faces. 'The boys will be hungry and you won't want to witness it' she added. Napoleon glanced round and indicated the waiter to bring the bill, before turning to help Ottilie to her feet.

'Well, hope to see you again real soon' he addressed Thérèse, before watching her walk away, Anastasiya gazing at him wistfully as they moved slowly down the street.

Ottilie sighed deeply and strode to the pavement, the first snap of her fingers seemingly enough to bring a yellow cab hurtling towards her. After a few moments of gazing out of the window, she turned to Napoleon, appraising him with undisguised approval in her expression.

'For a Californian, you dress well' she said sharply, inviting his smile. 'So, what did you think of her?' she continued, scrutinising Napoleon as he drew a cigarette from his case and knocked it on the top.

''She seems both extremely talented in the areas we need, and also extremely attractive' he replied, lighting the cigarette and inhaling deeply.

'Yes, she is, isn't she? Ottilie replied, Napoleon slightly unsure of which attribute she was referring to.

'She may be extremely useful to us' Ottilie continued, staring out of the window. 'Yes, extremely useful' she murmured.

xxxxxxxx

The apartment was in shadow from the early evening as Illya opened the front door and slung his attaché case down in the corridor, before walking into the bedroom and peeling off his jacket and trousers. He opened the wardrobe door and found a hanger, remembering his partner's comment about the suit, which even he could see was of a higher class than anything even Solo usually wore, which was saying something. After wrenching off the rest of his clothes, he took a hasty shower, and then yanked out some clean underwear, followed by a blissfully cool t shirt and thin cotton trousers, which he rammed his gun into the back of as he left the room.

The fridge was mercifully stocked with some bottles of juice and water, which Illya demolished in quick succession, before consuming the large sandwich which he was surprised to see carefully wrapped and waiting for him on the top shelf.

'Thank you darling' he murmured to himself, smiling, as he wandered into the cramped lounge of the apartment and turned on what looked like a small TV set innocuously standing in the corner of the room.

His wife immediately appeared on the right hand side of the screen, with the rather incongruous figure of Cyrus Blau behind her, sitting on the sofa. She had obviously just finished putting the children to bed, on her own it looked like, for which he was relieved, the thought of Blau even coming near his children filling Illya with a sort of snarling rage he had trouble in controlling. She looked tired, her hair coming down from the rather tight pleat she had forced it into, and the apron over her dress bespattered with evidence of the children's bathtime. Blau, on the other hand, had obviously not lifted a finger except to pour himself a drink, which he sat fingering as she entered the room. Illya fiddled with the sound and sat back on his haunches to watch as Tess flopped onto the sofa beside the Austrian.

Illya had never really taken to watching television, and indeed they didn't have one at home, but he had glanced at a number of shows which were on when he had called at Napoleon's, and without the sound in particular, the action in front of his eyes could have been mistaken for the average American domestic sitcom, at least to begin with, Tess taking the part of the dutiful wife to her charming, good looking husband. However, as he listened in uncomfortable silence to the dialogue, the 'show' began to take a more unpleasant turn.

'Ah, at last' Blau began, a tight smile breaking the rather miserable expression his face had adopted prior to her entrance. 'Does it normally take that long?' Thérèse frowned a little, then left the room, returning with a glass full of what Illya knew was water.

'Yes, it does, when there are three little children and just me' she said firmly. 'Anna likes a story, and she was a little fretful tonight. The boys are usually straight down and eyes closed, like their father' she said, staring ahead, as if she could see Illya's smile through the hidden camera. Blau put down his drink and patted the sofa, rather like an owner of a dog might to summon his pet.

'Have you thought about my offer?' he began. 'It is obvious, dear Theresa, that you cannot, you should not have to live like this' he said, waving his hand round the room as if it were some overcrowded prison she needed to escape from.

Illya could see she was struggling to remain focused on her role, the real Tess wanting to burst out at him, but being violently restrained by this quiet

woman standing in front of him now.

'I . . .I have thought about it, a lot. I will help you in England, as long as it's not for long, as I don't like to leave the children, but Iowa, um, I'd have to think about that.'

'Iowa?' Illya exclaimed, rubbing his head, 'what on earth . . .'. He was aware suddenly of the kitchen door opening, as he drew his gun out of the back of his trousers and jumped up.

'OK, just me' Napoleon offered from the kitchen, before coming through to the lounge and sitting on the sofa behind him. Illya sighed and put his gun away before assuming his former position on the floor staring at the screen.

'What's he doing there?' Napoleon asked, peering at the screen.

'Shush' Illya replied, 'I need to hear this.'

'Theresa, you will like our community I am sure. I hope that you will give us the opportunity to share our vision with you, and if you are willing, to begin a new life there with your family, an opportunity I am sure you will not be able to refuse.' Blau was saying, having drawn Thérèse onto the sofa next to him.

'Gee, he sounds like that Insurance salesman who called the other week' Napoleon said, noticing that Illya was glued to the screen in front of him, his whole body rigid, only his right hand slowly clenching and unclenching by his side. Illya turned away from the screen, his face drawn and hard.

'I imagine he means some sort of Nazi homeland' he said in a low voice. Napoleon knelt down and put an arm round his partner's shoulder.

'It won't come to that. I'll make sure of it.'

Thérèse walked over to the window and looked out, before turning round and pulling her apron off.

'OK' she said eventually. 'But I need to think carefully about this, despite the fact that it's tough looking after the children on my own.' Napoleon could see that his partner was now hanging his head slightly, before he continued to watch the saga unfolding itself before his eyes.

'Don't take it personally. She thinks you're father of the century, remember' he said to Kuryakin's back.

'Really. Well, I suppose I should be grateful they even recognise me sometimes after the amount of time I leave her to manage alone' Illya replied rather mournfully. Napoleon got up and went into the kitchen, returning with two glasses filled with ice and something Illya liked the look of. The Russian took one of the glasses gratefully and turned back to the screen, sipping the vodka meditatively as he saw Blau drawing something out of his pocket.

It was a necklace, with a large stone in the middle surrounded by smaller ones, like a sun surrounded by tiny stars. Illya sighed at the sight of it. Thérèse bent her neck and Blau put the necklace round it, putting the fine golden chain she usually wore on the coffee table.

'That is very unusual' he said, indicating her wedding ring. She gazed at him for a moment, before extending her hand towards him.

'Your ring' he continued, 'it's a Russian design, is it not?' Thérèse nodded, sliding the three rings amongst each other with her fingers, the new necklace feeling huge and crude to her after the simplicity of the other one.

'Yes. My husband er, had an interest in Russian culture. He liked the spiritual meaning of the ring; you know, 'three in one and one in three'.' Illya saw Blau's face harden, before he said,

'Your husband was a religious man then, as well as a Russian lover.'

'Spiritual, yes. And a lover of knowledge, Cyrus; a lover of knowledge.'

Illya put his glass on the table in front of Napoleon, before walking out of the room. Napoleon could see that Cyrus was preparing to leave. Glancing at the screen, he got up.

He was outside the kitchen door, leaning over the metal parapet of the fire escape. Solo put his hand on the Russian's shoulder and stood behind him.

'If you want this to stop it can right now. I'll tell Waverly myself that it wasn't working out.' Illya turned round. To Napoleon, he looked momentarily distraught, before the iron self-control reasserted itself on the Russian's face. He shook his head, then turned back to face the evening sun.

'If it was my choice, if I was like him, or like Dawkins even, then this would end now' he said. 'But I'm not, and our marriage is built on the belief that ultimately, we make our own decisions.'

'You mean she's like her sister and telling her what to do is just a waste of breath' Napoleon replied. Illya smiled wanly and nodded.

'I've tried, and she does listen occasionally, but she is stubbornly determined if she thinks there is some moral point at stake' Illya replied, banging his foot gently onto the parapet. 'Besides, it's going to be difficult now, since he's got her involved with the auction.' He looked up, and felt in his back pocket for his communicator. 'Incidentally, Napoleon, what is Iowa to do with it? Was it mentioned to you, now that you're a fully fledged member of the Adler Society?'

Illya fiddled with the silver pen and waited.

'Ottilie mentioned it at lunch time, but nothing before. I presume Cyrus will let me in on the scheme when we get to England. Whatever it is, I think Iowa, in some way is the reason for all this' Solo added, as Illya spoke to a girl named Bridget.

'Find out all you can about anything connected to the Blaus in that state' he was saying, and also anything of interest that is happening, though I can't imagine anything of interest which might be happening' he added, looking at Napoleon and shrugging his shoulders.

'Now don't be cruel to Iowa' Napoleon scolded, 'there are some mighty fine folks down there.'

'If you say so' Illya replied, watching his partner disappear into the apartment.

Napoleon returned to the lounge, hoping that Blau would have made his exit from the apartment before his partner came back in to witness it. The screen was bare, and as Solo switched through the channels on the TV, he could see that Blau was thankfully absent from any of the other rooms as well. He switched off the TV as Illya came back into the room, before taking the glasses and refreshing them in the kitchen.

'OK, so let's just recap so far before you rejoin your wife, who incidentally, and luckily for you comrade, is now getting ready to have a bath, alone.' Kuryakin frowned before replying,

'And you were watching?'

'I averted my gaze. I fully intend to enjoy what is left of this evening with Josefina and leave you to whatever you intend to do in there.' Napoleon went over to a small desk behind the sofa and pulled out some paper and a pen, where he noted down the times of their flights, Illya working out a probable time they could make contact once they had both arrived at their destinations in Europe. If all went to plan, they would be together again in a few days time in England, Illya in possession of the works of art now residing in a Swiss bank vault, and Napoleon in possession of the facts that would connect all the disparate parts of this complex plot into one comprehensible whole.

'And what are we going to do about Cecilia? Illya mentioned as they switched off the lights and took the glasses back into the kitchen. Napoleon opened the kitchen door and turned to face his partner.

'As far as Bolt is concerned? Well, we haven't heard anything back from Bermuda yet, so I'm hoping that she hasn't sent her new friend a detailed description of either you or me. Perhaps she might let something drop when you're with her, but apart from that, until we hear from our man in Hamilton, we'll just have to press on and make sure that Miss Luft doesn't get her hands on the money, or if she does, that we know where it's going. If we're going to find a way to Bolt, we have to keep the channel open as long as we can.'

As he was leaving, he heard Illya shout his name.

'I've just remembered. Tess told me about Michael after . . after that party of Darryl's where I behaved like a complete idiot.' Napoleon smiled at his partner's description.

'Well, what have you remembered?'

'Iowa. That's where the Dawkins family comes from.'

Xxxxx

Illya shut the closet door gently, and padded into the bedroom. The three children lay in their respective cots at the end of the bed, Tasiya in her diminutive bed like the meat between the twins' sandwich. The boys faced each other across her, their light blankets kicked aside in the heat. He leaned across and pulled them back, noticing Tasiya's more restless movements, and then walking round them to pull off his clothes and lay them on the chair by the wall. He crept back out of the room and headed for the bathroom, hearing the soft lapping sound of the water as he pushed open the door.

Thérèse was lying in the bath with her back to him, her hair now piled on her head in a freer way than the tight style she had sported before. Raising her arms towards him, she pulled him close as he gingerly climbed into the bath and knelt, before righting himself facing her. Illya saw that she had taken off the necklace and was now wearing the one he had given her in the first days of their marriage. She looked at him, and then began to stroke his face and run her hand through his hair. For a moment, he'd forgotten that she hadn't seen him like this; the morning, and his visit to Cyrus Blau's apartment, seemed like days before.

'Mmm, you look good, in fact you look fantastic' she said, drawing him close again and kissing him, Illya aware of her body against his own as he held her.

'Are you absolutely sure you want to continue?' he murmured, aware of the tension in his own body as they remained locked together, her hands tracing the newer scars across his back.

'No, I'm not sure at all, but ultimately, if it will make a difference, then I'll continue, as long as . . .'

'As long as?'

'As long as the children are not involved any more, and as long as you are there.' Illya leaned back slightly, and began to idly rub at his body with the sponge.

'You don't have to do this. I can tell Waverly that you don't want to carry on.' Thérèse frowned, putting her hand on his.

'I have to carry on. I know you think I'm absurd, and they're only paintings, but it's a principle at stake here. The paintings are, in some cases, all that is left of some of those people's family. You met Orin; surely you can see what it represents to him? It just makes me so mad that they robbed them once, and now this so called 'Society' is robbing them again, and no doubt the money is to be used for some ghastly purpose.'

'Yes I know, I understand all that; that is why I do what I do, Tess. But you are not an agent, you shouldn't be putting yourself in danger, and it is wrong of UNCLE and me to allow you to do so.'

Thérèse smiled and kissed his head, gently stroking his hair with her hand.

'I suppose you heard all that about their new community in Iowa' she said, running her hand through the long hair at the back of his neck. They looked at each other steadily for a while before Thérèse said, 'It's him, isn't it? Michael's involved in all this.' Illya sighed, then grasped her head between his hands.

'We're not absolutely sure, but it looks like it. This is why I didn't want you to involve yourself in all this, Teresita. Things have a habit of, well, becoming complicated.' Thérèse shook her head and stood up, grabbing a towel and beginning to rub herself, her hair falling down round her shoulders, hiding the emotions flooding across her face. Illya pulled the handle to let out the water and climbed out of the bath, taking the towel and gently patting her dry.

'We're pretty sure he won't be in England. After the auction is over, we can manufacture a reason for you to leave quickly. He didn't meet Napoleon so his cover should hold; as for me, well, we're hoping that we can resolve this whole mess before we even have to go to Iowa.'

Illya grasped her hand and led her into the bedroom. Tasiya continued to toss and turn between the silent figures of the twins, both sound asleep with beatific expressions on their faces. He climbed onto the bed and then crawled down until he was gazing at the children.

'What's wrong with Anastasiya?' he murmured, feeling Thérèse by his side.

'She must be upset with the idea of a new stepfather' Tess began, smiling. Illya glanced sideways at her. She seemed miraculously calm, considering her involvement in this affair had taken on a wholly more sinister turn. She grasped his arm and kissed him on the side of the face, her fingers enjoying its smoothness.

'Now, let's go back up to mama and papa's end of the bed.' She saw a ghost of a smile illuminate Illya's face as he turned and headed for the pillows, gently undoing and removing her gown before pulling the sheet over them.

xxxxxxx

'Phone. For you, of course; your partner in crime.' Illya moved along the floor slowly, his breathing slightly compromised by the iron grip round his neck from above, and his movement slowed by two set of arms hanging onto his legs.

'He's coming, eventually' Thérèse smiled, watching the strange procession of bodies coming closer, Tasiya now shouting 'horsey, horsey' and starting to yank her father's hair as she urged him on.

Napoleon's eyebrows rose slightly at the raucous noise on the other end of the line. After a series of yelps and screams, his partner's voice eventually was able to make itself heard amidst the clamour.

'Oh hello. Sorry about the noise, we're just playing horsey, er, I mean horses.'

'Yes I can hear. When are you leaving?'

'Um, this afternoon. I presume there's a reason for your enquiry?'

'Yes. Remember that conversation we had about your mother and Blau?'

Napoleon could hear a slightly indrawn breath before Kuryakin said 'yes' rather quietly.

'Well, when I made the arrangements about your girl returning to Grove St, I called in. They've just got back, by the way.'

'Thank you for telling me. And?' Napoleon hesitated before continuing, 'she said she would talk to you about it; she wants to see you before you leave. Apparently she's arranged to go to Mass at the Cathedral with Tess and then take the children while she packs up.'

There was a silence the other end of the communicator. Napoleon could sense his partner's pain, the sounds of the children filling the void between them. The memory of seeing Kuryakin's distress in Israel, of sharing his memories of the event made him grimace. With a sigh he continued, 'Look I know it may be difficult, but she may know something about the older brother which may be relevant, and besides, perhaps now is the time you two need to talk about this, before we get any deeper into this mission.'

'Possibly, but I'm not prepared to push my mother farther than she is prepared to go.'

'OK I understand. Oh, Jo says to tell Tess everything is arranged at the house.' Illya frowned, staring at the twins, whose hair was now looking a lot neater than the last time he'd seen them.

'Oh, right. I'll be in touch once I reach Switzerland.'

He put down the phone and sat down by the side of Misha, just stopping him from dropping some wooden bricks on top of Valentin's head.

'Um, mama is coming round to see me in my apartment before you go to Mass.' Thérèse nodded, picking up Tasiya and then releasing her into her father's arms, head first.

'By the way, their hair looks different. How did you manage that?'

Tess smiled, 'I found someone local; very close in fact.' Illya looked puzzled. To his knowledge there were no shops within blocks of these apartments.

'They look very smart, don't you boys?' he said, smiling at the twins, 'Mama will have to take me too next time won't she?' Thérèse turned away, a wide smirking grin breaking out on her face.

'Yes, I'm sure he could do a good job on you' she managed to get out.

Xxxxxxxxx

The sound of a car pulling up in front of the apartment block was enough to alert Illya to the fact that his mother had arrived. By the time she'd reached the corridor he had swung open the door and ushered her in, following her into the nondescript sitting room. She looked younger he thought, the result of several weeks holiday, or just of living a less stressful and lonely life than before. They embraced, Illya feeling, as ever, her perusing him as she held him in front of her, just as she had done when he was a little boy.

'You look tired, Illyusha. You need a holiday and Pablo and Pascale are missing you'. Illya frowned, the thought of his older children churning up worries about the way this mission was evolving and how the insidious hand of Lee-Hua Bolt had begun to be a part of it. She handed him a little packet, the edges of which were decorated with rather beautifully drawn patterns of shells and sea creatures, the handwriting his son's untidy script. He drew out a few pages of assorted sketches mixed in with a letter which was obviously written by both children, Pascale's italic writing interspersed with her brother's looser hand. Several photographs completed the bundle. Although it had been just a few weeks since they'd left, these children standing on the beach seemed older, taller than the ones he'd reluctantly said goodbye to.

'It won't be long now. We're missing them too' he said, smiling at the pictures, before carefully returning them to their packet.

Marina put down her bag and sat on the sofa, while she listened to her son making the coffee in the adjoining kitchen. She looked round the room, its utilitarian furnishings reminding her of similar rooms, similar apartments she had lived in before she came to the west. A whole lifetime of living in small, cramped accommodation still left her feeling awkward and even guilty when she thought of the spacious and elegant house which she now inhabited.

She had been surprised by Napoleon's phone call, and his subsequent visit to their house. She could tell immediately that he hadn't called purely to pass the time of day, or to enquire what sort of holiday they'd had. She had seen the three Solos arrive, first of all going into Illya and Thérèse's house, then Napoleon coming out alone and heading next door.

He had hidden it well to begin with, chatting comfortably about his family, their holiday, their new decorations; anything it seemed rather than the real reason for his visit, which she knew must have some connection with her son. He had glanced at the pictures propped up on her mantelpiece, seizing one of Illya as a six year old sitting at the piano in their old apartment, his childish face set into a concentrated stare at the keys which his small hands sought to master.

'This is in Kiev?' he began, smiling at the seriousness of the child at the piano. She had nodded.

'Yes, that was a few weeks before we had to . . . before we left for the country.' She had seen Napoleon's face change, a more serious look enter the dark brown eyes.

'He told me a little about what he remembered' he began. He returned the photo to its place and sat down facing her on the sofa, his features betraying the difficulty he was having.

'And, for some reason, you want me to tell you what happened' she interrupted, Napoleon seeing her face hardening as the words faded from her lips. He had returned her gaze calmly, not rushing to say anything until he was confident of his words.

'Our present mission involves a man who may be related to someone whom you knew in Kiev' he began slowly, recognising the penetrating expression in the woman facing him. Marina stared at him, but her eyes seemed to be somewhere far from the quiet room with its steadily ticking clock and warm, uncluttered atmosphere.

'Is my son still in New York?' she said suddenly, her formality reinforcing the accented tones of her voice.

'Er yes, they're in one of our apartments at the moment, but Tess and the children are coming back tomorrow' he replied lightly, thinking of his wife standing in the Kuryakins' kitchen, carefully cleaning her gun.

'Waverly thinks I can handle it' Jo had said nonchalantly. 'We don't need anyone else, and Brenda will sort the kids out until Tessy returns.'

'Well don't open the door to any strange men' he had replied, Fabian ignoring him while he busied himself with delving into the large box of toys waiting for him and his cousins in the corner of the room.

'I know; she rang me. We're going to Mass, then Peter and I will have the children while she packs their belongings' she said, smiling. If Illya is there, then I'll talk to him about it' she added bluntly.

'If you'll find it easier.' Napoleon cursed himself at the expression which flooded her face.

'Easier?' she looked faintly incredulous at his words, her lips tightening into a line very familiar to him. She stood up and wandered to the mantelpiece again, picking up another photograph, more recent than the last, the little boy now grown up and holding two diminutive versions of himself in his arms, the serious expression now replaced by one of speechless wonder.

'I knew that one day I would have to talk about it . . about him' she murmured, her eyes still fixed on the photograph she held in her hand. 'Perhaps afterwards, it will 'easier' as you say, but for whom I am not sure.'

Illya smiled rather tightly at her as he brought in the coffee and set it down on the low table in front of the settee. She had noticed, as soon as she saw him, the suit and tie he was wearing which looked more like something his partner might choose, not complimented, she thought, by the unruly mop of blond hair which framed his rather anxious looking face. He was aware of her gaze and was thankful that she hadn't seen him in the days before his transformation at Raymond's hands.

They drank their coffee in slightly awkward silence, before Illya finally turned towards her on the sofa, moving slightly closer as their eyes locked in a mutually searching gaze.

'Napoleon said that you are involved with . . .a family member of . . .' her voice faltered unusually, Illya switching to the Russian which seemed suddenly fitting, but redolent of the events unfolding between them. He took her hand and held it, his large fingers gently squeezing her smaller, thinner hand.

'Blau' he said quietly, yes, the brother is here in New York.'

Marina put down her cup and put her other hand round his, feeling the cool roughness of it. Something of his expression vividly reminded her of Nikolai the night before he left for the front. She wondered, not for the first time, how her daughter-in-law coped with the ever present reality that on each occasion her husband left, he might never return.

'Illyusha, since Napoleon visited me, I've been … ah, reflecting on those events. Perhaps now is the time to lay these ghosts to rest, _malchik moy.' _Hearing the tender childhood words made Illya draw closer, as if his mother could once again offer protection against the pain and fear that he felt gripping him across the decades. She gazed into his eyes, willing him to draw strength from the calmness she now felt filling her mind.

'I think you know what happened in that room, and there seems little value in mentioning it' she began. 'I knew that he had worked out you were there, and he would never give up until he found you. He visited the hospital, as you know, taking the children those Nazi creatures thought might be suitable for adoption by good National Socialists in the fatherland.' Illya blinked slightly at her words. He had never heard her swear, but the word 'creatures' was invested with a passion he had rarely experienced her expressing. She stopped for a moment, her eyes remembering the distant, vivid scene.

'He sent his minions to inspect the ward the first time, and then he came back later, I don't know exactly why, but then who was going to ask?' she added. 'That was when he saw your photograph. I knew then that he would not rest until you were added to his little collection' she murmured. 'But this wasn't the only time he visited before . . .' she looked down, calming herself before looking again into her son's worried face.

'You mean he came to our apartment before?' Marina stared at him and then nodded.

'He came to the hospital in the evening, on his own. I had stayed later than normal, trying to finish some work, and you, _solnyshko_, were staying the night at your friend Bogdan's apartment; do you remember him?' Illya smiled and sighed deeply.

'Ah yes, the Prutko family' he said softly. 'They took him and his sister if I remember.' Marina nodded.

'Fortunately, my story that you were in the country held up at least for a while. He insisted on escorting me home, which is how he knew where I lived when they came' she said savagely. 'He already knew that I had been married to a Russian, that my own mother was Russian, and that I was a widow. He took pleasure in demonstrating the efficiency of his intelligence operation, as if I would be impressed by the way they ran their filthy system' she said, her lips twitching as she spat out the words.

'It was obvious that he considered me attractive and therefore that I should feel honoured by his attentions' she continued. 'After all, I was just a member of an inferior race there to serve the needs of superior beings like him.'

Illya frowned. He felt ripped apart by the conversation, as if he were two people, one, the UNCLE agent, eager to discover more about the family at the centre of this plot, and the other, the victim, needing to understand and let go of the trauma which had been perpetrated by a member of the same family.

'So, did he . . . I mean . .'

'No, not to begin with. He told me about his family, surprisingly. He seemed very protective of his little brothers, writing regularly to them, sending them money and gifts when he could. I got the impression that they were very very close' she said quietly. 'He told me that after their parents' death, he was the nearest thing to a parent they had, and that they would continue to care for each other, come what may. He had political ambitions, if I remember, but they were skewed, Illyusha; he dreamt only of conquest, of control. I met many Wehrmacht officers during the war, and most of them were not Nazis; many were decent men caught up in a conflict which was as destructive to them as it was to us. But he was different; he had the Nazi ideology at his core, and I always felt that he could be capable of evil on a grand scale. I'm not a vindictive person, I believe in life and giving life, but I am glad to think that our red army were responsible for his death.'

Illya pursed his lips and remained silent for a while before speaking.

'And the day he came to the apartment, the day . . .'

'The day that I hid you?' Marina stared at the ceiling momentarily, before looking Illya in the face again. 'He was enraged when he couldn't find you. I knew what might happen.' She bit her lip slightly, her face darkening with the memory. 'I thought of your father, Illyusha. I knew that somehow I had to stay alive, because if he killed me, then . . .'

'Then I would have died too, in that place' Illya said quietly.

'Yes. I had lost him to that war, and I was determined that I wasn't going to lose you, whatever happened.'

Marina pulled him towards her, the man, for a few moments becoming the boy again as they embraced and became still. After a while, they separated, Marina unconsciously rearranging her son's hair away from his forehead with her hand, her fingers wiping the wet marks from his face as he sat motionless before her.

'Thank you mama' he said eventually in a low choked voice, before rising from the sofa and leaving the room. Marina waited for a few moments before getting up and glancing at her watch. The darkness of the past, its power to hold and destroy, seemed suddenly to have receded a little, in the same way as the sun now penetrated the anonymous room with brilliant, warm shafts of light.

She walked into the kitchen and found him washing up the cups, furiously crashing them against each other in the water. Without speaking, she took his hands out of the sink and gently placed the china on the draining board.

'He told me that the youngest brother was a very young boy, I suppose about your age. I remember him saying that the family were from Austria originally, but they had moved to Bavaria, near Nurnberg after the _Anschluss_ in '36 when the two countries became one. Yes, I remember now, because it was where the war crimes trials were held, was it not? I thought later that he should have been there on trial for what he did to those families.'

Illya nodded silently, standing with his back to the sink watching his mother. She took his arm suddenly, forcing him to look at her directly.

'Illyusha, if the brother is guilty, if in some way he is continuing their filthy regime, I pray that he will be brought to justice, but I beg you not to involve Thérèse. That family, there is . . .' she paused, struggling to find the right word to express her feelings, 'there is an absence of any sort of morality' she said. 'Konstantin Blau was utterly depraved, especially with regard to women, and if his brothers are like him, then any woman must fear for her sanity, no, for her life if she, in any way _resists _them.'


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 11

Cecilia Luft opened the French doors of her apartment and stepped out onto the balcony, high above the traffic on the wide boulevard below her. In the distance, the summer evening light deepened the intensity of the lake's blue water, spreading in a seemingly unending course towards the distant, cloud-topped Alps. She leaned back against the frame of the door, for a moment a shaft of sadness piercing her at the thought of giving this place up, of the distinct likelihood that she would never again see this beautiful city with its lake and mountains stretched out in front of her. The sudden, insistent ring of her telephone prevented her from debating whether it was all really worth it.

She left the door open, the traffic's roar beginning to lessen at this time of the day, and picked up the phone.

'Cecilia.'

The low tones of the caller were unmistakeable, the voice bearing the very slight American accent which Luft presumed the caller had inherited from her proximity to Americans during her childhood and early adult life.

'Lee. Are you well? How did the surgery go?'

'Despite my initial apprehension as you know, it appears that Erik was as good as his word. I think you will be pleasantly surprised by the improvement.'

Cecilia grimaced slightly at the image conjured up by the last remark, the explosive blast which had destroyed her lover's plans for global domination every bit as much as it had damaged her face and body. Lee had talked briefly of what had happened, and of whom she believed was responsible.

She had met her in a private clinic in the city she now called home. Geneva was such a polyglot society, there were so many people of so many different nationalities employed by multi-national agencies working in the city, that somehow she was not surprised to find a Japanese-American woman recovering from surgery in the same unit where she had gone to visit one of the partners of her bank, undergoing treatment following a serious accident on the autobahn outside Geneva.

It was difficult not to remember her, Cecilia thought; the initial revulsion she had felt at Lee's face, the striking features coarsened by the blast's touch, one eye lost, replaced by a crude version of its vivid green partner, the skin surrounding it reddened and rough. However, it wasn't her face that was receiving attention at this place. One of her legs was encased in a large white cast, the result of, as she told Cecilia, some extensive surgical work to repair the bone and enable her to walk again properly. Over successive weeks, as Cecilia was required to attend the clinic on business, so she found herself being drawn to her with an attraction bordering on a kind of animal magnetism. Lee's face became secondary to the intense relationship growing between them, until Cecilia felt a kind of desperation growing inside her at the thought that it could suddenly come to an end with the discharge of this woman to an unknown place Cecilia had not been informed of or asked about. Without thinking through the consequences of her choices, she handed over the keys to her apartment, Lee moving in on a freezing November morning the following week.

She had kept her personal life strictly separated from her work at the bank, and Lee was no exception to this rule. Nobody at Franck-Merckel was even aware she had someone living with her, or who they were. Her work, which had once been the epicentre of her life, now became the necessary, but peripheral activity surrounding her obsession with this woman. She found herself pouring out the frustrations of her life to this person who had now become her lover, and in return, receiving a gradual revelation of her partner's life. Such was the intoxication she felt in her lover's presence, that Bolt's story seemed natural, even attractive to her.

After a while, she began to see that her own frustrations and desires, and those of her partner were coalescing into a new plan. A plan which, if successful, could ensure them not only great wealth, but also, and infinitely more attractive to both women, great power over the very people, over the men who had held them back and ruined their lives.

Lee had talked of the island she had lived on, of the Bolt Corporation, of THRUSH and its rejection of her after the fiasco which UNCLE had engineered led to her humiliation in front of THRUSH Central and her virtual expulsion from its ranks. She had managed to hang on to a not inconsiderable part of the fortune amassed from her pharmaceutical company and had used the time to repair her body and to plan. Meeting Erik Funk in Bermuda had been purely by chance, but it had led not only to a radical improvement in her appearance, but also to knowledge of those who remained part of her plan. While her face and body was painfully rebuilt, she began to develop new lines in her laboratory, and lay down the web which would one day entrap those who had robbed her of what she wanted most and would one day have.

'Good. That's wonderful Lee.' Cecilia picked up a pad by the phone and flicked through to the page where she had made a series of notes. 'The timetable is as we agreed. There haven't been any serious changes at all' she continued, running her finger down the list. 'The Blaus are sending their agent to Geneva today and of course he has no idea that I am not a bona fide member of the Adler Society just waiting to fulfil their Nazi dreams.' There was a slight pause before Bolt spoke.

'This agent, who is he?' Cecilia smirked, remembering the scene in Blau's apartment at the Dakota building.

'Oh they drew him in by their usual methods. You know, he's the usual Aryan dream that they go for, blond, blue-eyed, a homosexual so they say, but cold as ice in the way those beautiful men sometimes are.' She heard a distinct indrawing of breath from the other end of the phone, as if Bolt had suffered some sudden unpleasant experience she couldn't immediately share.

'Lee, are you alright?'

'Do you have a photograph, I mean of this man?' Bolt said abruptly.

'Er, no, but it may be possible to obtain one at the bank. He will have to show some credentials, so, I can . .'

'Yes, send me them immediately, do you understand?' Cecilia frowned before she heard Lee continue, this time in less brutal tones. 'I'm sorry. I'm sure it is nothing, but your description awakens a memory in me of someone . . . important.' There was another short pause, before she continued, 'Oh, and Cecilia, is there another man involved in your group, er, dark brown hair, brown eyes, an American?'

Cecilia felt her heart pound faintly, as she quietly snapped the pad closed.

'No, there's no-one like that' she said quickly.

xxxxxxx

The image of the house in Waverly's office snapped into Napoleon's consciousness as the car swung round from the road and drove up a long, straight drive of pollarded mulberry trees lining the road like enormous green lollipops. He glanced rather surreptitiously around him as the car slowed, noting the extensive grounds and the number of workmen engaged in holding back nature within them. The immaculate order of the apartment in New York was matched by the clipped splendour of the estate, the trees reminding him more of those he had driven past in French towns than the more usual untrimmed English varieties. He could see the figures of Blau and his wife waiting at the bottom of the flight of steps to the house, partially blocked by the elegant fountain in front of them on the drive.

The car drew to a smooth halt at the bottom of the steps, a young man appearing from nowhere and opening the door for Napoleon, before taking his suitcases inside the house.

'Ah Marshall, I trust your journey was smooth' Blau began, a rather ingratiating smile drawing his lips into a tight line across his face. Napoleon advanced towards them and shook Blau's hand, before kissing Ottilie in the continental fashion. She was wearing a straight, dark navy dress and high heeled shoes, her face and nails showing the evidence that Raymond and Raylene were also in residence.

'Yep, totally uneventful' Napoleon offered as they returned up the steps towards the double front doors of the house, now swung open to await them. It felt slightly strange seeing the house in reality, and it was hard for Napoleon not to contemplate the rooms which he presumed now lay beneath them. Thankfully, since it was approaching six o'clock, he was shown to his room without any further conversation, Ottilie mentioning that drinks would be served in the drawing room at seven before disappearing down the corridor towards the east wing of the house.

Napoleon's room was relatively spacious, with a small adjoining bathroom converted, he supposed, from a former dressing room. His suitcase had been laid on his bed, and he carefully unlocked it, before removing the clothes and leaving them to check the more interesting equipment he had stashed beneath the false bottom of the case. He glanced round the room, before checking, and returning his gun and ammunition to their original hiding place, and then stowing the case on the top of the ample wardrobe facing his bed.

A polite knock interrupted him. The door swung open and Fernando swiftly entered, closing it behind him with a soft thud. Napoleon felt a slight smirk begin to form itself on his face as he surveyed his fellow agent. Fernando's curly hair had been cut in a sort of mop round his face, reminding Napoleon of Tess with similar hair in the months after she had returned from 'Bolt's island paradise' as he had occasionally referred to it. He was wearing the clothes Napoleon had observed in the images in Waverly's office; a black turtle neck sweater and rather close fitting black leather trousers, giving a rather sinister twist to his partner's favourite colour.

'I've been sent to help you unpack' he said, smiling. 'I'm sure you've got some interesting little items stowed away in your case Mr Zweigart.'

'And they can stay there, for the moment' Solo replied, as Fernando perched on the end of the bed facing him. 'I'm just waiting for Illya to get in touch and then you can fill me in with what's happening _chez Blau_.'

As if by some psychic force, Napoleon's communicator immediately began to bleep. He grinned and pulled up the antenna.

'Arrived safely in the land of the cuckoo clocks?' he began, sitting down in the chair facing Fernando.

'Of course. I'm just about to go out to dinner, so I'll call back later when you've had the chance to elicit what is really going on from your charming hosts' came the reply. Napoleon nodded slightly, raising his eyebrows at Fernando.

'Well I wouldn't want to come between a hungry Russian and his dinner, so I'll speak to you later. Solo out.' He returned his communicator to its place in his suit and stood up.

'He seems OK, so all we have to do now is to enjoy the evening and hope that by the end of it, we'll understand a little more what the hell is going on here' Napoleon said, beginning to sort out the clothes on the bed. 'I trust that there's no 'alternative entertainment' planned for tonight, which might prevent me from talking to our brother-in-law' he added.

'No, by all accounts the so-called 'entertainment' is being planned for the night following the auction, when we're all gathered like one big happy family' Fernando replied, getting up and glancing out of the window at a distant figure perched halfway up a telegraph pole, just outside the grounds of the estate.

'Well, that's a relief. Hopefully by then we'll have a clearer picture of exactly where this is all going' Napoleon said. 'I need to limit your sister's involvement to the absolute minimum and avoid getting too involved in whatever is going to be happening downstairs' he added, smiling a little ruefully.

'I think that may prove a little tricky' Fernando said, moving away from the window. 'It seems to be an integral part of what the Blaus term their hospitality.'

Napoleon extracted his tuxedo from the neat pile of clothes on the bed, and searched through his shirts for the appropriate one to match it. He began to remove his suit and other clothes as Fernando watched silently from the window.

'Now, would you mind hanging these up in the wardrobe for me, young man, as I need to make myself presentable for our hosts' he said, shutting the bathroom door behind him and leaving Fernando standing in front of the assortment of clothes on the bed.

'Thanks. I'd love to, sir' he grumbled.

xxxxx

Illya unconsciously ran his hand through his hair as he saw Cecilia approach through the packed restaurant tables. The place was crowded with couples enjoying a night out, as well as other, more serious groups of what he took to be businessmen enjoying a meal at the expense of their company. He detected at least a dozen different languages being spoken, the Swiss dialects making him frown in concentration as he listened.

As she approached, he stood up, the waiter drawing her chair back and then pushing it behind her slightly as she took her place opposite him. His hair felt slightly damp after the shower and he squirmed slightly in what was yet another new suit, shirt and tie that had been supplied to him by Ottilie Blau. He felt Cecilia's eyes on him as he sat down again, as if she was puzzled by something about him she hadn't noticed before.

The waiter slid the menus into their hands, signalling to a sommelier lurking in the background, who Illya noticed beginning to ready himself to approach after a decent interval. The menu was extensive, but Cecilia had obviously eaten here regularly, and Illya allowed her to order for them both before indicating that they were ready to choose the wine. The list matched the quality of the menu, some of the wines causing him to raise his eyebrows fractionally at their rarity and price. Luckily the sommelier was only too eager to advise in an obsequious way that made the Russian's lips twitch slightly, before he made his decision and the waiters withdrew, leaving them alone.

'Is your hotel satisfactory?' Cecilia spoke the words as if she was required to; Illya could see she had no real interest in his reply, or indeed in him as a man. Having spent years observing women round his partner, it had been obvious from the start which man she found more attractive. She, like the others, had been shocked by the change in his appearance at the Blau's apartment, but after her initial comment, she had returned her gaze, and her interest, to his partner. Napoleon hadn't shared what exactly had happened after his meeting with Cecilia at Claridge's, and Illya hadn't asked, but he was certain that it had continued beyond the dining table. Waverly had ordered Solo to obtain information and Illya knew that he would carry out those orders in whatever way he deemed necessary to achieve success. So far, in this mission, he had not been required to make a similar sacrifice.

The meal began, and continued in similar fashion, the conversation between them moving in a desultory fashion between subjects without becoming particularly interesting or meaningful. By the time they had reached the main course, a rather delicate Italian veal dish with artichokes, Illya knew no more about her than Napoleon had told him already. He noticed her look at him again several times, as if she'd been told something and was pondering what it meant. Illya decided to stop trying so hard and enjoy what was turning out to be rather a historically delicious meal.

During the last spoonfuls of a superb chestnut Mont Blanc, she suddenly turned the conversation to a more serious note.

'I will expect you at the Bank at 10 o'clock precisely' she began, her voice assuming a rather harder edge. 'I presume you have the necessary documentation from Cyrus to complete the transactions?'

'Of course. I have the codes and death certificates, and the list of Art works for verification purposes' he replied, equally coldly, putting his spoon down on the plate slowly and meeting her gaze with his own, equally penetrating one. She put down her glass, breaking the stare between them.

'I must say, Mr Krause, that you seem to be both organised and efficient, traits which in your personal life, at least in the past, weren't always apparent' she almost hissed, her lips hardly moving as the words left her lips.

'I've learnt not to be so impetuous as I was' Illya answered, a slight smile on his lips; 'I don't know about you, but I've found that making rash choices based on feelings, particularly feelings of passion, have consequences which often one is unable to control.'

He was surprised by the shocked look on her face, and the deep flush which suffused her neck. For some reason, his words had affected her strongly. After a few moments she recovered, and gestured towards the waiter, who returned with two espressos in delicate cups, the coffee somehow reflecting the words between them; short, bitter, dark. Like many of those around them, the Bank seemed to be paying the bill, and they were soon out on the street, the city now buzzing with another sort of frenetic life of its own as they walked down towards Illya's hotel. He was not surprised when, with a short reminder of the time they were to meet in the morning, she left him standing outside the hotel, watching her disappear into the night.

xxxxxxx

The drawing room, as Ottilie called it, was, unsurprisingly to Napoleon, as elegant as the other rooms he had glanced into surreptitiously on his way down the corridor to the end of the East Wing. Whatever spectral army of cleaners the Blaus employed to keep this house in the immaculate state it appeared to be, they had certainly both done their job and disappeared without trace, leaving the 'boys' as he called them to carry out the roles of servants to the guests now assembled in the large airy room before him.

Napoleon's gaze took in a number of faces recognisable from their evening at the Club in New York, the Slovakian man who had unwittingly made Kuryakin's job easier that night now appearing to have no difficulty in conducting a conversation in German with another man, whose red hair of an intense hue even outdid Anastasya's fiery locks. As he listened, gradually he became aware that they were all talking the same language, the deep, guttural tones radiating towards him as he noticed Ottilie turn round and begin to move in his direction.

'This evening, we all talk the same language, _ja_?' she murmured, her Berlin accent apparent as she grasped his arm and drew him into the mêlée in the middle of the room.

'_Natürlich_' he replied, inclining his head slightly, as he began to ponder why this requirement was being insisted upon, and how that might impact on his partner's role in the days ahead.

Ottilie kept a firm hold on his arm, whilst appearing to glide between the other guests. Her androgynous appearance was underlined by her choice of evening wear, a close fitting sleeveless top made of some kind of silver sequinned material, completed by a pair of black, voluminous evening trousers made of thin, silk jersey, enveloping her remarkably long legs. The only colour on show was on her lips, a vibrant red, matched by a similar colour on the long, tapering nails of her hands. Napoleon raised his eyebrows slightly, before accepting a glass of what looked like pink champagne from one of the attendants, a tall dark haired boy with rather dazzling blue eyes and a chiselled chin not unlike his own. As he smiled at the boy, whose gaze seemed to go straight through him, he caught sight of someone familiar by the open window at the end of the room.

'Excuse me for a moment' he said, sipping what turned out to be a remarkably fine champagne, and managing to slide from Ottilie's grasp before slowly heading in the direction of the window.

She was standing with her back to him, talking to a tall thin man with similar colouring to her own, almost white blond hair. Solo remembered him vaguely from the party, but the fleeting look of recognition on his face alerted Napoleon to the fact that he was known rather well by this man.

'Er, I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced. You are . . .?'

'Ah, my name is Gunther, Gunther Flick, and this is my wife, Claudia. I believe we have an uncle in common, Herr Sweigart.' Napoleon nodded, a smile forming as Sabi held out her hand for his kiss.

'And how is München these days?' Napoleon asked, noticing that since they had last met, she looked fitter somehow, the muscles on her arms hard and taut as she withdrew her hand from his.

Her move back to Germany had not been surprising to him, but Illya had reacted differently, spending several days in silent contemplation of whatever he happened to be occupied with, whether it was paperwork on his desk, an experiment in his lab, or even his lunch. After a few subtle hints had got him nowhere, Napoleon had cornered him in the shower block.

'Want to take it out of me in the gym, or is Tess having to endure this too?' he had asked. Kuryakin had scowled heavily in his direction, before turning round morosely and wrenching the shower tap onto a full blast stream over his head.

'Of course, I was never consulted, but I am only her child's father, and as such, of little significance' he had grunted from amongst the steam.

'Get over yourself Kuryakin' Napoleon said, lobbing a sponge he'd found on the floor at Illya's head. 'She didn't ask for the transfer. Either of us could be moving to some godforsaken place east of here anytime soon.' Illya turned round slowly, pushing his hair out of his face and peering at his partner somewhat peevishly.

'In your case, Napoleon, I don't think so. Me, well I'm sure there are some of my colleagues who would be only too delighted to see me on the move to some 'godforsaken place east of here' as you put it. But somehow, with your luck, it would probably be Paris, and with mine, Kabul.'

Solo whistled under his breath. 'My, we are feeling sorry for ourself, aren't we?' He jumped out of the way as Illya barged past him, rubbing his hair with a towel as he opened his locker door and dragged out assorted clothes from its depths. Napoleon knew better than to press, though, and sitting down on the bench, waited patiently for the Russian to unwind. Eventually, after having dragged on a pair of black trousers and a shirt, he stopped, his head slightly bowed, Napoleon listening to his breathing becoming slower and calmer.

'I didn't know she'd been given no choice. It's just that . . I mean it's not as if she has a . . oh you know' he said, looking rather desperately at his partner.

'Yes I know' Napoleon replied, handing his partner his tie and tie-pin from the mangled pile on the bench beside him. 'Would it be too much to expect you to talk to her about it before she goes?' Kuryakin had pulled on his shoes and socks and stood up, smoothing down his hair into something approximating tidiness.

'Um, Therese has, er, fixed something I believe' he said, frowning slightly, 'not that I was given a choice, of course.' Napoleon sighed, and got up.

'Looks like the women in your life have you figured, comrade' he smirked, picking up Illya's towel and wrapping it round the Russian's neck.

'So it appears, Napoleon, so it appears.'

Napoleon had watched them walking down the street together the following afternoon, reassured eventually by seeing Sabi slip her arm into his, and Kuryakin's tender smile as she turned her face in his direction. Sauntering into their office later, he had found him leaning over Connie's desk, engaged in what sounded like an animated argument over something they both were looking at rather intently.

'But it's ridiculous, who would wear such things?'

'Obviously quite a few guys in Carnaby Street, London I guess. I think you could set a trend in New York wearing those, Illya, I really do.' Napoleon noted Illya's incredulous expression before leaning over Connie to view whatever was outraging his partner so much.

A soft package lay on the desk, the outer brown paper pulled back to reveal, amongst the translucent tissue inside, a pair of astonishing trousers. Napoleon noticed the label, a soft pink with the word 'Vanya's' in a darker shade emblazoned across, and a card with Misha's characteristically untidy writing on it. Before he could decipher the Russian words, Connie had pulled at the trousers with a little flourish and was holding them against the now squirming Russian in front of her.

'Outta sight, Mr K' she said, her face creased at the pain emanating from the man facing her. Napoleon sidled over beside his partner and felt the trousers.

'Mm, purple brocade. Just the thing for next month's UNCLE summer party, eh comrade?

'Well you can wear them then. I can't imagine what he's thinking of . . . ' his voice petered out and he began to smile as he read the card, before shoving it into his jacket pocket and taking the trousers from Connie.

'Well, what does he say?'

'Nothing much' Kuryakin murmured, folding the trousers, the smile still lingering as he carefully placed them in his briefcase and shut the clasp.

'It's fine, darling, it's fine.' Napoleon's thoughts were snapped back to the present as Sabi gazed at him. Glancing briefly round the room, Flick, or as Napoleon now remembered, Rheinhardt Schmidt from the Munich office, indicated the open window, and they stepped outside into the soft glare of the evening sun on the wide terrace immediately outside. Napoleon reached for his cigarette case and proffered it to Schmidt, and for a few moments they stood silently, the glow of the cigarettes masked by the power of the sun's rays on the house.

'I thought you'd given up' Sabi said frowning.

'Yes, well don't tell him' Solo replied, stubbing the cigarette out on the stone tiles and leaning against the window frame.

'When will Blondie be here?' she said, leaning against Schmidt suddenly as a group of other guests stepped out through the window onto the terrace, her face suddenly lit up, as if she'd just heard an incredibly funny story.

'Yes, I heard that they were making separate journeys, poor things' Napoleon continued seamlessly, 'the wife arriving the next day, and the husband the day after.' The group started to make their way along the terrace and down the wide staircase towards the lawn at the back of the house, their voices fading slightly as the three agents continued their conversation.

'Our cousin from the East is flying in with the lovely Miss Luft, but our Art expert will be with us shortly' Napoleon said, leaning against the window frame. 'Are you in on tomorrow evening's deliberations?' Schmidt nodded briefly.

'Yes, at least I am; Claudia here is being entertained by our lovely hostess.' Napoleon sipped at the champagne and nodded to Sabi.

'Apparently, darling, she needs some help with the choice of costumes for our little entertainment' Sabi whispered, her intense silvery blue eyes widening in the twilight.

'We need to be quite clear who the other guests are, if they have any other role in this affair beyond the acquisition of a painting, and, most importantly, what the purpose of all this is' Solo continued. 'I have a very strong feeling that the art is a means to an end, and the end if intimately bound up with the lives of these three brothers. Sabi, see if you can pick up anything from Ottilie Blau; you know, if the older brother is alive, I can't see him approving of her little 'sidelines' in the cellar.'

'You think the money is for him?' Schmidt said, frowning. Napoleon shrugged slightly. 'Possibly. But we need to know exactly what he is planning to do with it, and the sooner the better.'

He hesitated, mulling over the knowledge Illya and he shared about Bolt. If she was involved, however indirectly, it could prove to be highly dangerous for them all if she were to discover their presence here. Before he could say more, he was aware of a flash of silver the other side of the window, before Ottilie slid through and stood among them.

'Ah, Marshall darling, I was wondering where you were' she sighed, her eyes glancing at the Flicks and then darting back to Napoleon. She suddenly clapped her hands in a gesture inviting immediate compliance, the guests responding with alacrity to her command and beginning to return rather hurriedly to the room behind her, and then down the corridor towards, what Napoleon imagined, would be an elegant and interesting dinner.

CHAPTER 12

'Mr Solo? Report please.' Napoleon scrambled down into a rather conveniently situated sand dune, and leaned back into its sides, before positioning his communicator in front of him. In fact, there was little to report. The dinner party had passed relatively uneventfully, Napoleon and the two German agents managing to make a fairly accurate list of the guests between them. From idle chatter after the meal, it appeared that although all the guests supported the beliefs of the Adler Society, only a few were permitted entry to the inner circle of decision making. After coffee was served, he saw Ottilie begin to guide the women in the group away into another room, whilst a rather petite blond assistant who reminded Napoleon of his partner, began to draw some of the remaining men into an adjoining room where he imagined Cyrus Blau waited.

He was not mistaken. Blau stood waiting for them by the fireplace, a small fire lit even though it was approaching high summer. The blond assistant provided them with a cognac before disappearing, Napoleon aware of the door being locked behind him.

'I won't keep you from the ladies for very long' Blau began rather patronisingly, making Napoleon ponder what his wife's reaction to this rather archaic example of dinner party etiquette might be. 'Tomorrow evening, we will meet after dinner more formally, gentlemen, when my agent will be present to confirm the availability of the paintings and the financial arrangements for payment. I will then be able to explain the final stage of our plan for what I know we have all been longing for these many years, which is the establishment of our new community, our _heimat_.'

'Did he say where this 'homeland' is going to be established?' Waverly asked, a hint of sarcasm evident in his voice.

'No, but presumably it'll be in Iowa. You can see the logic of it, sir, many folks there are already of German origin, there's plenty of land, and they already seem to have connections there.' Waverly made a deep noise in his throat before saying,

'Well you'd better hear what Mr Moore here has to say about that. We have to prevent these people stealing these art treasures, but it appears we could have the situation of a war criminal taking residence in this country illegally as well.'

'I can see that sir, but there's also the matter of Miss Bolt.'

'Ah yes, Miss Bolt, that is a very worrying development. Has Mr Kuryakin been in contact with you yet?'

'Not since last night, sir. I think he's going to try before he leaves Switzerland.'

'Well, if he makes contact, impress on him that we must try to find a way to track her down, at all costs. Compared to her, these Adler people are mere children. No doubt she is planning something of global significance and the money is to fund her scheme.'

Napoleon grimaced at the communicator. For some reason, he felt comparatively safe in his alter ego, but Illya's position could be more tenuous. Kuryakin could be vulnerable to betrayal, and there were at least two people who were capable of effecting that betrayal. He began to think both of Bolt and of Michael Dawkins; strangely they were linked, both by an obsession not with his partner, but with his partner's wife, the woman that he, Napoleon Solo, had allowed to become deeply involved in this mission.

'Napoleon?' Napoleon shook himself free of his thoughts as Darryl's voice assailed him from the communicator.

'Yes Darryl. What have you got for me?'

'I'm not sure how much you know about what's happened since the party.' Napoleon frowned. He knew that Michael Dawkins was awaiting medical clearance before being re-assigned, and he assumed that the Brigadier was still at West Point. If Darryl had been assigned to dig into his family history, Napoleon presumed that he had been given the same information Jack O'Neil had given Napoleon.

'Er, just fill me in Darryl, OK?' There was a slight pause before Darryl began.

He had been briefed before visiting his uncle and aunt, using his fiancée as an excuse to visit the relatives he usually avoided, unless of course Mike was there. Darryl's friendship with his cousin was only marred by the constant need of his uncle and aunt to compare their lives. When O'Neill had briefed him on the information he had obtained, a few pieces in the jigsaw of Michael Dawkins' life had fallen into place for Darryl.

Obviously, Darryl could not remember his very early childhood, or that of his cousin. He remembered visiting the Dawkins family home in Iowa, a sprawling farmhouse in the middle of what seemed like a whole world of maize plants to the boy from the Chicago suburbs. After that, the Dawkins were living mainly in Army bases, eventually ending up at West Point. Until, knowing what he knew, he visited their home again, Darryl never really noticed that there were no baby pictures of Michael anywhere in this house, or in any that he had visited before.

'I got Julie to ask all the pointed questions' he continued, 'otherwise they'd guess I was fishing, on account of the fact that I was never interested before now. Anyway, Aunt Rhoda just came out with it. She said, in that way she does, as if she's to blame for everything, that they couldn't have any children, so they adopted Mike when he was a little boy. They must have seen the look on my face, because Uncle Eugene said that they hadn't told him until recently, but that he understood their reasons and respected them for them. Jeez, I just hate how pompous that man is' he exclaimed, to Napoleon's amusement.

'So, did they say where they adopted him?' Napoleon asked.

'They claimed he was adopted through some agency in Europe at the end of the war' Darryl continued. 'You know, the 'everywhere was in chaos, we tried to help out' line. Sounds highly irregular to me, Mr Solo, but I guess it _was_ chaos at the end of the war.'

'It sounds as if they're keeping the story as close to the original as possible, with the omission of a few little details' Napoleon said. As he started to thank Darryl, he was interrupted.

'Just a minute, Mr Solo, I haven't told you the last bit yet.'

'Oh? What last bit?'

'Mike broke off his engagement. He failed his medical and he's out – they gave him a medical discharge. When I asked where he was and what he was doing, they were cagey. Old Eugene said he was 'thinking over his options' in a quiet place. I took that to mean Iowa, but they weren't giving on that one, except that Aunt Rhoda let slip as we were leaving that he was thinking of 'following the family tradition.' Napoleon frowned.

'Yes, depending on which family we're talking about, that could mean a variety of things' he said.

'Well, I think it might mean farming. The old homestead is empty since Eugene's papa died, and O'Neil told me that someone has been buying up land on the adjacent farmsteads. So that makes up one big doozie of a farm, don't you reckon?'

'Yes, I reckon so' Napoleon said, sighing. 'Well, as long as he stays put on it for now, that will give us time to wind things up our end.

'OK Mr Solo. If I find out any more I'll be in touch.' As Napoleon went to close his communicator, he heard Darryl cough nervously. 'Um, Mr Solo, I was wondering. . . um, is Mr Kuryakin OK?'. Napoleon smiled widely and nodded his head.

'He's fine. I'll send him your regards, Darryl. Solo out.'

Napoleon sighed and clambered out of the sand dune, noting other, distant Adler Society members slowly working their way towards the dune fringed perimeter of the beach. This part of the English coast was new to him; he had visited Norwich and the Norfolk broads on another mission, but this wilder part, with its peculiarly English combination of natural pine woods, sand dunes and a long curving row of rather quaint wooden beach huts edging the wide sandy beach and the endless sky, this came as a pleasurable surprise. The Blaus' house was separated from the wood and its beach by a narrow, and very minor road, but the immensity of the headland ensured that, even in summer, the beach could still digest the many visitors who came without ever giving the feeling of being even remotely full.

Staring at his watch, Napoleon realised that the house would soon be receiving its final visitors. As he turned away, he heard an insistent voice calling him, urging him to wait. He stopped and within a few moments, Sabi and Schmidt had come up beside him. She was wearing a thin linen dress, her hair covered by a silk headscarf and her eyes covered by curving, opaque sunglasses, giving her a stylish, Parisian look which reminded Napoleon of his wife.

'Darling, where were you?' she began, taking off her sunglasses and glancing round before continuing 'have they arrived yet?'

They paused amongst the shade of the pine trees, Schmidt standing slightly behind Sabi, and thus able to see if any others might be approaching.

'Unlikely. Our blond friend contacted me from the airport this morning, so, traffic permitting, they should be here in about an hour's time. Our art expert is due, well, it appears at almost exactly the same time.' Schmidt smiled and nodded his head.

'German efficiency, no?'. Napoleon looked up towards the house before turning towards them again.

'I've also been chatting to our relatives back home. It appears that our hunch that Dawkins junior is in fact one of the brothers could be right. Apparently, he's out of the military and could be in Iowa now, although that's not confirmed. Now listen carefully. Sabi, I want you to stay as close to Therese as possible. Illya needs to focus on what might be a tricky few days here, and I don't want any additional difficulties making life harder for him or her, OK?' The other two agents glanced at each other, before Sabi said,

'Are you worried that he won't be able to complete his mission if she is here? He will never let UNCLE down, or put his personal life before his mission, you must know that, surely?' she said, her eyes boring into his.

'Yeah, I know all of that, I was on the island, remember?' He looked down, then met her gaze again. 'I'm afraid that this is not going to be quite as simple, especially for Illya, as it might have first appeared. When we got Tess involved with all of this, we didn't know then, well firstly about Michael Dawkins.' Schmidt shrugged, continuing to stare towards the beach.

'Dawkins is certainly a threat to both of them, but I thought you said he was in Iowa. I can't see that he would involve himself in the auction, even if, and we don't know this yet, even if he knows about his true heritage.'

'Absolutely, that's true' Napoleon replied. 'However, from what Mrs Blau said to me, I can't help thinking they have plans for their _wunderkind _and the lovely widow.' Sabi gasped and put her hand on Napoleon's arm.

'_Oh mein Gott! _Surely not, darling? I thought he had a fiancée?'

'Well apparently he doesn't now, according to Darryl Moore. What I'm also not entirely clear about is how deeply involved the Brigadier and his wife are, which if they are involved, could spell another little problem for Tess.'

'You said there was another problem; you said 'firstly' Schmidt interrupted, apparently unmoved by the previous intelligence. Napoleon sighed and pursed his lips.

'Yes, you could say that. You remember the meeting of the Adler Society in New York that I told you about?' They nodded simultaneously, a worried frown settling on Sabi's brow. 'Something happened that evening which leads us to believe that a not very nice person of our mutual acquaintance has managed to worm her way into the proceedings.' Sabi frowned, then started slightly, as if something quite unpleasant had appeared in front of her eyes.

'Fraulein Bolt' she said tonelessly, her face suddenly hardening.

'It appears she has some sort of relationship with Miss Luft, which I would guess suggests that her interest in this activity is financial. As far as we know, she is not aware of our involvement, but that could change if Miss Luft were to supply her with any sort of description of the _dramatis personae_ as it were, which would then put an entirely different complexion on the matter.'

'So, our orders?' Schmidt said suddenly, shaking Sabi from her fixed gaze on Napoleon.

'We have to continue our mission; to retrieve the paintings and prevent their sale; to apprehend Konstantin Blau and enable him to be brought to trial, and to prevent Miss Bolt from getting her hands on the money from the auction. Waverly has ordered Illya to pursue the connection with Bolt, by whatever means possible. Of all of them, she is considered to be the most dangerous, and her pursuance of this money can only be for another, far more unpleasant purpose than that envisaged by the Blau family.'

'I understand all of that Napoleon' Sabi said quietly, 'but what about Tess?'

Napoleon put his arm through hers and began to walk back towards the house, Schmidt following behind them in hearing distance.

'She is not to be told about Bolt' he said, frowning. However we do it, we have to get her out of there before she is put in any danger, or is a witness to anything that might border on the upsetting. Understand?' Sabi nodded.

'_Oh ja, ich verstehen'_ she said sadly.

xxxxxxxxx

Illya glanced backwards, aware of the capacious boot of the car they were travelling in, and of what it held. He forced himself not to make eye contact with either of the inhabitants of the back seat, and turning his head, stared fixedly at the road signs for as long as he could.

'Mr Krause, could you ask the driver how much longer it will be? I don't know this part of England very well.'

'Oh it's only another few miles; we're at Fakenham already.' Illya cringed inwardly and vowed that he would never, never allow himself to agree to Tess being involved in another mission ever again. Not that she had agreed to be involved with the Bolt fiasco, he thought, but as ever, whenever something appeared to be just a simple thing, it had a habit of becoming complicated, extremely complicated.

The morning in the bank had passed with frightening ease. His documents had been verified without a murmur, and he had been lead to the vaults by Cecilia Luft, her presence making him even more uncomfortable as he checked through the paintings against his inventory, before directing their stacking and storage by someone from Blau's organisation who obviously knew about the conservation of art. The Chagall painting caused him to stop what he was doing and gaze at it, images of his wife, of the family in Israel flooding into his mind and causing him to hesitate before passing to the next work of art on his list. He could feel Luft staring at him, her face still mildly puzzled, as if she needed to ask him something. For some reason, she had insisted on inspecting his passport, not handing it back to him until they had returned from the vault and were once again in her office.

'Do you normally inspect passports?' he had said coldly, as she thrust it at him.

'The bank insists on some sort of identification with people they haven't seen before' she had replied. 'Don't worry; it's just a formality in your case.' It did worry him though.

He had seen Thérèse immediately in the airport, but her clothes seemed unrecognisable from the usual assortment he had to squeeze his own things beside, at least before his 'evil twin' as he called Misha, had rearranged his clothes and his wardrobe space. She looked faintly amused, as if she was somewhat surprised by the number of people openly staring at her. Illya wracked his brain as to who she looked like, then smiled.

'Bonjour Paris' he murmured as she turned and waved at him. She had dragged him to a film, insisting he would love it because it was about Paris. 'Funny Face' he had read in the newspaper over her shoulder, 'doesn't sound like a documentary about Paris.'

'We-el, it's not _exactly_ a documentary.' She had avoided looking at his face when it began, but it was hard not to enjoy what she was enjoying so much. He had whispered at the end 'she's not quite as beautiful as you' and she had looked at him and given him that exquisite life filled smile that made him weak at the knees at the thought of her. Now here she was, a wavy haired version of the screen goddess, her similar build making her perfect for the exquisitely tailored suit and rather chic straw hat she was sporting.

'Wait here, I'll go and fetch Miss McCaffery' he said to Cecilia, who was staring rather icily at the waving figure across the concourse. He wove his way through the travellers, reaching her and glancing back before he heard her say,

'Guess who? What d'you think?' and making it so hard for him by giving him another radiant smile.

'Stop being so incorrigibly cheerful and come with me . . . . Audrey' he said looking her up and down and hoping Luft wasn't staring quite so hard as she had been.

'Oh you guessed! They wouldn't let me bring my own clothes, so I let Jo choose' Therese beamed, her face peeping out from under the hat.

'Well just remember that I am not interested in you and that you are not interested in me, and that someone is watching us not being interested in each other.' She looked over his shoulder and suddenly kissed him, rubbing off the red lipstick as his startled eyes fixed themselves on hers.

'Tess!'

'Don't get in a lather. She's just gone in that shop there to buy some perfume. She'll be a while, I bet.' Illya picked up her rather heavy suitcase and grasped her arm before beginning to propel her towards the exit.

'And what has she done with your hair?' he hissed, permitting himself a sideways glance as they walked rather rapidly towards the doors.

'Now, don't start. It's only a little shorter. Jo said I wouldn't look right otherwise.'

'Oh really. Remind me to . . .ah, it appears that Miss McCaffery has had an uneventful journey. Permit me to take your luggage to the car.'

Thérèse was impressed by his smooth transition into the part and she forced herself to acquire a bored expression as he struggled away between the two large cases.

'Miss McCaffery' Luft began, looking Thérèse up and down. 'I see you have come dressed for the part.' Thérèse pursed her lips and swept past her, focusing on her husband's retreating figure and frowning at his now rather abundant hair, which was instantly blown about in a sort of blond mist round his head as the doors opened to the exit.

'He can talk' she muttered to herself, conscious of Cecilia Luft's slightly quizzical stare. She smiled tightly and strode through the door behind Illya, who was now standing by the side of an elegant dark blue Bentley, into which she saw that, beside the cases, a number of other large boxes had been stored. She glanced at him enquiringly, but he looked through her in a way that made her shudder slightly, before going round to the front of the car.

The chauffeur, with an equally expressionless face, helped them into the back seats, before shutting the doors and boot with a heavy clunk and taking his place at the wheel. Therese realised, with a slight thrill, that this was her first time in a Bentley; she had insisted on travelling to the church for her wedding in a yellow cab, and they had walked home, Illya holding her round her waist as if she was attached to him and they could never be separated. Aeons seemed to have come and gone since that evening, aeons had gone and several little and bigger Kuryakins had come. She felt a rush of love for her three little babies now so far away from them both, and her two, equally precious children in another, nearer place. Marina had held her for a long time before she left, making her promise that she would leave 'immediately' once 'whatever you are doing there' was over. Looking at the back of her husband's head, the double crown making his hair swirl slightly down into a thick mass on his shirt collar, she began to wonder whether she had put her principles before her family with unforeseen and dangerous consequences.

She looked out of the window, recognising the flat coastal landscape as the car bowled through a succession of flint and pan-tiled villages heading for the sea. Eventually Illya turned slightly, pushing back his hair in the unconscious way she had seen him do so many times.

'What happens when we arrive?' she said, searching for anything to break the rather unpleasant atmosphere building in the car. He shrugged, and opened his mouth, to be silenced by Cecilia, who turned her body to them both as she spoke.

'Mr Blau will want to see you immediately, Herr Krause. As for you, Miss McCaffery, I expect that you will be required to supervise the removal of the works of art and the arrangements for tomorrow. I need to speak to Mr Blau later, and then after dinner, the men will have their meeting, and we ladies will no doubt have less serious amusement to look forward to.' Illya stared at her slightly before raising his eyebrows.

'You won't be at the meeting? I thought you would be involved.'

'Ah no, Mr Krause. In the Adler Society, we women have to learn our place in the order of things. Miss McCaffery and I are useful at the moment in our professional capacities, but ultimately, in their world, women are born to be wives and mothers, this is their role, is it not?

'If you say so' Illya replied curtly. 'I have no intention of having a wife or children so the matter is of no interest to me.' Cecilia smiled, turning to Thérèse.

'Well that is a pity. The attractive ones always seem to be that way. Besides, he would make very pretty children, do you not think, Miss McCaffery?'

'Oh yes, I imagine his children would be beautiful, depending on the mother, of course' she said, smiling at Cecilia. Illya gave them both what Tess deemed his 'premier class scowl' and turned round.

The house seemed quiet when they arrived, only what appeared to be a kind of chief butler appearing and directing them to their rooms with the obligatory boy in attendance for each new guest. Illya memorised Tess' room and its location and then followed a rather lanky dark haired boy down the corridor to his own room. Cecilia seemed to disappear as soon as they arrived, and Illya assumed that her meeting with Blau was taking place immediately, so that she could then slot into her role as an inferior female for the rest of the time. The boy, whose name turned out to be Jonathan, insisted on unpacking Illya's case, which seemed to contain a whole host of clothes which Illya had never seen before. He had put anything UNCLE in the attaché case he had taken with him, allowing Ottilie to dictate the contents of his suitcase. He frowned at the large number of clothes, shoes and other impedimenta which she obviously assumed he needed. Eventually he was able to get rid of Jonathan and retrieve his communicator, just as another knock at the door forced him to hide it again.

He sighed an exasperated sigh and opened the door.

'Well let me in then, partner, unless you want this conversation in the corridor.' Illya swung open the door to let Napoleon in and, after a swift glance up and down the corridor, locked it behind him.

'Well, how was I to know it was you; I've only just arrived.' Napoleon surveyed the room, indicating with his eyes whether a sweep had been made.

'It's Okay. I did it from the bathroom. That radio jamming thing is very effective; or at least I hope it's effective' Illya replied. 'It appears they don't see the need for extensive surveillance equipment at Fiennes Court. What are you doing?' Napoleon had opened the wardrobe door and was rifling through its contents, drawing out a number of suits and shirts and making various, approving noises at them.

'Seems they've kitted out both Kuryakins rather well for this little get-together' he said. 'I saw your wife downstairs looking rather like . . .

'Don't tell me, Audrey Hepburn. Yes, I understand from her that your wife has had a hand in her wardrobe, and that, as usual, she couldn't resist interfering with the rest of her appearance as well.'

'Ah, you mean her hair' Napoleon said smiling, 'I think she looks very sweet. It suits her. What I want to know is why Madame Blau is allowing this.' He came over and flicked up the ends of Illya's hair before sitting down on the bed.

'Yes, that is strange. Normally, I would be only too delighted if my hair was left alone, but in this case it seems it a bit odd to go to all this trouble with these', he pointed at the wardrobe, 'and yet leave this, well, like it is. I got the impression that she's planning something for me at this so-called 'entertainment'.

'Ah yes, the 'entertainment'' Napoleon said, smiling. 'This will appeal to your thespian talents, comrade mine. Apparently, the theme is Shakespeare's 'Midsummer Night Dream' done the Blau way.' Illya lent against the wardrobe, an audible sigh escaping from his lips.

'And what exactly is the 'Blau way', Napoleon, as if I couldn't guess' Kuryakin groaned.

'Well, let's say it's about fairies and humans who chase them, but this time the magic ingredient is supplied by Mrs Blau.'

xxxxxxxx

It came as a slight relief to Illya that the meeting he thought might take place on the evening of his arrival had been postponed until the morning of the auction. He spent dinner pressed into conversation with the wire-brush haired man he had first seen in New York, who turned out to be a millionaire businessman from Argentina who was obsessed with Impressionist paintings and playing polo, neither of which Illya could talk about at any length. His desperation must have radiated from him in some way, for just as his companion began a lengthy discourse on Matisse, he felt someone draw up behind him and put their hand on his shoulder.

'I don't think you'll find Mr Krause very forthcoming on the subject of Art, Señor Mascherano' he heard his wife whisper in perfect Spanish, 'his love is for languages only.' Mascherano leapt to his feet and kissed her hand in what Illya deemed to be a rather flowery fashion, before gushing,

'Ah, but you, Señora, are not only an art expert, you are indeed a living work of art!' Illya tried not to cringe too obviously, and stood up, smiling curtly at his wife whom he noticed was wearing an astonishing peacock blue dress, her hair swept up into a chignon which was begging him to kiss her neck as she smiled demurely in his direction.

'In that case, I'm sure you will both enjoy sharing your mutual love' he said rather acidly, and walked swiftly away towards the open doors of the dining room, where he noticed Napoleon had headed a few moments before.

He saw his partner hesitate fractionally at the end of a long yew hedge before disappearing behind it. Other guests had spilled out of the dining room onto the broad terrace at the back of the house, some strolling on the lawn, or wandering through the topiary hedge at the other side of it into the rose garden beyond. Illya walked along the terrace and slipped through the gap on the right, immediately finding himself in a very large kitchen garden, its rows of fruit and vegetables neatly laid out in serried ranks in the normal Blau way. _Would they dare otherwise_, he thought to himself as he caught sight of Napoleon lingering at the very end of the garden leading to an area of parkland and the mysterious building known as 'The Ice House'.

Running lightly down the path, he finally caught up with Napoleon as he approached the domed top of the Ice House. He could see that Fernando was waiting just behind it, and as they reached him, from the shadows of the trees to its left, Sabi and Schmidt emerged.

'Is this the safest place to meet?' Illya murmured, frowning at the cigarette Napoleon was stubbing into the ground by his feet.

'Too many people in the house' Napoleon replied, 'and the ones outside seem to be gravitating towards the rose garden where I understand the Head Gardener is giving a talk on the history of the rose.'

'Oh yes, darling, I saw Tess and that man with the strange hair heading that way' Sabi added, squeezing Illya's arm and then running her fingers through his hair while her partner stared incredulously.

'Right, well we'd better bring _our_ man with the strange hair up to speed otherwise tomorrow might be a rather painful one' Napoleon said, ignoring his partner's grimace. 'Firstly, the meeting. I imagine that will confirm what we've worked out by now, that Iowa is to be the centre of this new community of theirs, and that big brother Konstantin will be the star attraction. According to Darryl, Illya, Michael has definitely left the military and is probably now in Iowa, although the agents we sent there haven't had any clear sighting of him. What I'm hoping to discover tomorrow is whether he has been told who he really is and how he feels about it.

'From what Tess has told me, Michael is a conservative who tends to fit in with the family's expectations, but he certainly doesn't sound like a Nazi' Illya said quietly. 'His military record is exemplary.'

'Mm, which makes me wonder what sort of line they're going to spin him to get him on board' Napoleon replied. 'Obviously tomorrow, one of us who does sound like a Nazi will have to ascertain that fact, and where exactly he is at the moment.'

'Blau, the war criminal' Schmidt suddenly interrupted, 'do we know where he is _at the moment_.' Illya stared at him, deciding that he didn't like him very much, as an agent, or as Sabi's partner.

'The last positive sighting of him was about two years ago in Uruguay' Illya said coldly. 'No doubt he will make his way up the continent by some means at the due time. Therein lies a problem; do we close down this end of the operations now, prevent the money being moved and rescue the paintings, or let it proceed and thereby have a chance of capturing Blau in Iowa?'

'I rather think the black hand of Miss Bolt has forced our hand there' Napoleon said calmly. 'Waverly has put her at the top of the list, so we have to shut down Cyrus' little money-making adventure before it becomes a funnel for our friend to make a vast sum for her own not very good purposes.'

'Ah yes Kuryakin, Miss Bolt' Schmidt said caustically, 'Sabi told me about it. It's a pity you made rather a mess of that mission; but still, you gave Sabi a lasting memento, did you not?' Sabi's grip on Illya's arm tightened to an iron-like intensity.

'You have no idea what you're talking about, Rheinhardt' she hissed, as Fernando came over and interposed himself between Napoleon and Schmidt.

'Shall we get on?' he said laconically, 'I have to be back soon to run my guest's bath'.

'Lucky guest, darling' Sabi whispered, smiling, breaking the rather difficult atmosphere that had hung in the air in the last few moments.

'Okay. The auction. We just let this go ahead, Tess and Illya doing their thing and the rest of us in our roles. I intend to chat to Cecilia about the transmission of the funds before tomorrow, and if necessary, I'm going to try and persuade her of the error of her ways. I have the feeling that her lover has not been entirely honest with her. My main worry at the moment is whether she has, even unwittingly, betrayed any one of us to Bolt.'

Illya coughed rather apprehensively.

'Um, if it's anyone, it's going to be me. When we were in Geneva together, she made it very clear that I was not going to be invited round for coffee, which suggests to me, well, it was obvious that she wasn't interested in me personally, but that also. . . .,'

'That she had someone there she didn't want you to meet,'

'For which she has my undying thanks' Illya continued, smiling a little. 'However, she did give me some rather strange looks during the evening, and when we were at the bank, she insisted on taking my passport 'for identification purposes' she claimed.

'You think she showed a copy of your photo to Bolt?'

'I have no idea, Napoleon, and nothing has happened so far, so there's no means of knowing until it does.'

'Well, we may have a means of knowing if there's any further communications' Fernando said. 'Don't be surprised if you get a visit from a friendly Post Office telephone engineer during your meeting tomorrow.'

Sabi sat down on the rounded dome of the partially submerged Ice House.

'What is this?' she said to Fernando, as she prised her high heels off one by one and wriggled her toes around on the grass.

'It's the Ice House' he replied simply. 'They use it to store things in now, but you can get to it from the back stairs in the old servants' quarter at the back of the house, or from the other entrance which also leads to Mrs Blau's kingdom.'

'And where is that?' Schmidt asked, as if he were giving an order.

'No idea, man. I'm just a lackey of the bourgeoisie around here. We have to go through the servants' entrance. As far as I know, it's only opened by Mrs Blau when they have an 'entertainment'.

'And talking of that, Sabi, I think you need to fill Illya in on his role in that, and what is going to happen to Tess.' Illya, who had been walking round the circumference of the ice house while they spoke, appeared again by Napoleon's side.

'I want her out of here, Sabi, as soon as this so called entertainment begins' he said fiercely.

'I understand darling, all is arranged. The car will be waiting at the back gate, you know Napoleon, beyond that wooded area over there.' She pointed to her left; the mown parkland which extended from the ice house along the back of the kitchen garden and the rose garden petered out, the grounds forming a dense woodland which extended for several acres. However, in true Blau fashion, the wood had been managed, mown paths intersecting it, with small arrowed signs indicating a number of different routes through, leading eventually on the farthest side to a small gate which opened onto a one lane road beyond. 'I will make sure she leaves safely, I promise you' Sabi murmured, her grey eyes squeezing together, cat like, in the growing gloom of the evening.

Illya kissed her cheek gently.

'Thank you, Sabi. I'm afraid that it's logical to think that if Miss Bolt has discovered that I am involved, she will have asked about Tess.'

'Don't worry, Illyusha, Rheinhardt and I can take care of Thérèse. As for the entertainment, you need this, and you need it now, darling.' She drew a syringe and a phial of colourless liquid out of her bag. 'Everyone else has had theirs, but you were last to arrive, so we haven't been able to give you yours. Don't worry, you will only feel nauseous for a short time.' She flicked the ampoule and began to draw up what looked like to Illya a very large amount of liquid into the syringe.

'Um, anyone care to inform me what this is for?' he said, glancing round at the others, but Fernando and Rheinhardt Schmidt had begun to walk away rapidly, disappearing into the kitchen garden. Napoleon remained, an amused smile on his face which was beginning to irritate Illya.

'Remember the Shakespeare theme I was telling you about, comrade? This is to counteract any unfortunate results of Mrs Blau's magic.' Sabi was now ready, and started to pull at Illya's trouser belt with her free hand.

'Thank you Sabi, I can manage myself' he grumbled, as he loosened his belt and unzipped his trousers. 'Well?' Illya glanced at them both, before turning round and letting his trousers drop as he bent slightly away from Sabi.

'Well you see, Illya, the 'humans' in our group, which, if I'm right in thinking, comprise Mr and the male guests, are the hunters, and the 'fairies' in our group, aka the boys in black, you, and the female guests, are the hunted. Now the magic ingredient which the hunters have, in a nice little pop gun supplied by Mrs B, is a little something which makes the fairies very willing indeed to be taken along to Mrs Blau's cellar by their captors for activities which I don't think we'll even try and imagine now.

'And this, - ow! - is?'

'Something which our boys came up with, to stop you being part of the entertainment. Fernando has made progress with your friend Raymond, who believes him to be a Special Branch policeman and who managed to give him a sample of the drug. Interestingly, it was something our boys have never seen before. They said it had to come from someone who was way ahead in the pharmaceutical world.'

Illya stood upright suddenly, rapidly pulling up his underwear and trousers, and swinging round to face his partner.

'Bolt?' Sabi gasped a little, and looked at Napoleon, a flicker of fear filtering through her eyes.

'But how, Napolina?'

'I have no idea. Let's hope that our friend from the Post Office can help us. Which reminds me. Going back to Raymond, he's expecting you both; that is Tess and you, after the auction.' Illya pulled his belt tight and straightened himself, before looking again at Napoleon.

'What for now?'

'I'd have thought that was obvious, comrade. You and your lovely wife are, a little worryingly I think, to be the centre of attention. I thought you knew your Shakespeare, Illya.'

Illya looked exasperatingly between them.

'I'm sorry, can you explain what he's going on about? I really have no idea.'

'Darling, Frau Blau has made you into the king of the fairies, and your Thérèse will be queen. You know, you are to be Oberon and Titania, and I think that everyone will be hunting you darling, _everyone_.'


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 13

The 'boys in black' as Napoleon had named them, were swarming over the front drive of the house, carrying an assortment of objects and furniture, as Napoleon stood with his coffee in front of one of the large windows in the library. The destination seemed to be a large, brick building set behind a screen of trees to the left of the house, which he guessed had been a stable block in another age.

'It's where the auctions take place' he heard his partner say into his ear, as he passed by him towards the large desk where Blau and Cecilia Luft were arranging a number of papers. Cecilia looked up and stared at him, a slight blush forming before she looked down again rather rapidly at the documents in front of her. Napoleon had attempted to find her after dragging Illya back to his room the previous evening, the Russian letting loose a torrent of abuse in a variety of eastern European languages, mainly directed at people who gave him unwarranted injections. They had decided not to tell him just how unpleasant the side effects of the injection could be to save listening to his complaints, and it was fortunate, at least for Napoleon, that Jonathan turned up and insisted on looking after him for the rest of the evening, thus freeing Napoleon, to hunt down Miss Luft. However, she proved elusive, and it was now playing on Napoleon's mind that she too could be a pawn in Lee-Hua Bolt's complicated financial game.

He noticed that Illya looked pretty cheerful and quite healthy looking; he was wearing an extremely well-fitting suit of what looked like a silk weave in a silver grey colour with a coral and black patterned tie, the whole ensemble only ruined in Napoleon's opinion, by his hair, which virtually covered his face as he lent forward to look at the papers on the desk. Fernando seemed to be on coffee duty that morning, thrusting a large cup in Illya's direction before serving Mrs Blau with a diminutive expresso. Still smiling, Illya picked up his cup and strolled over to the window.

'I will never trust you again. Well, not for some time' he said, glancing calmly out of the window, where Tess could now be seen walking across to the stable block, a large clipboard under her arm.

'You look fine now. I don't know what you're complaining about' Napoleon hissed out of the side of his mouth.

'It would have been bad enough; no, it would have been fine if you had left me alone. But you couldn't do that. You had to let that _boy_ come in and look after me, didn't you? Feeling as I did, I had to spend a considerable amount of energy fending him off from doing all sorts of things I only ever let Tess do. So next time, leave me alone in my misery, alright?'

'Got it in one. Oh, it appears the meeting might be about to start.'

Napoleon saw Blau press something at the side of the table, causing a screen to drop down from the ceiling at the end of the room at the same time as blinds effortlessly screened the windows and darkened the room. Napoleon took his place at the large table in the centre of the room with the other members of the Adler Society, while behind them Illya, Blau and Cecilia gathered at Blau's desk, Ottilie having slid away for an as yet, unclear purpose.

Blau pulled a small hand held box from the side of the desk, which was attached to the floor by a lead and clicked a button. The screen flickered into life, showing an aerial view of what was obviously a large, rural estate.

'This, gentlemen' Blau began, ignoring the fact that Cecilia was in the room, 'is our _heimat_.' Napoleon could see the buildings at the centre of the image, surrounded by a network of roads and fields of what he guessed were mainly maize crops. Further slides indicated that the acreage of the estate was indeed immense, the farm being the largest building of several other, smaller farms which had been attached.

'Imagine, gentlemen, what could be done here.' He clicked again, and a series of drawings filled the screen, plans and elevations of various buildings comprising a small town and several small estates of houses and other buildings.

'We have already applied for, and see no problem in obtaining, permission to develop this area, indeed the state has welcomed our proposals' he droned on. 'Of course, a development of this kind requires financial backing, especially in the initial stages, and this is why I will continue to work in Europe to facilitate this.' Napoleon smirked at the term and glanced at Illya, who had donned a pair of sophisticated looking glasses which poked out from the abundant blond hair surrounding them.

'Excuse me.' Schmidt had raised his hand, inviting a smile from Blau, who obviously approved of his rather abrasive manner. 'May I first say, Herr Blau, what a magnificent enterprise you have embarked upon, which our compatriots in the old country would be proud of' he began. 'My question is this: If you will be in Europe, directing the financial underpinning of this project, then who will be leading our project in Iowa? A community must have a leader, _ja_? A bit like women, they need to be directed, _nicht war_? There was a kind of unanimous roar of laughter from the table which Napoleon naturally joined, at the same time vividly imagining the kind of comment Josefina might be making at this spectacle.

'Thank you, Herr Flick, for your kind comments. And, of course, you are right. We have to have a leader; _ein fuhrer für ein volk_. I think you know what I am going to say, my friends. Yes; my brother, who has been forced to live far from friends and family for too long, he will return, to lead and to guide. But that is not all! I think some of you know the sad story of my brother, of _our_ brother Konstantin. Fortunately, we have friends throughout the world who believe in our way. Through them, the Blau family has been preserved; myself, my brother Konstantin, and, most wonderfully, our younger brother. Yes, our brother Darius is alive, and, friends, not only is he alive, he is with us now!'

Napoleon glanced quickly at Illya, who, true to form, had not shown any emotion whatsoever at the news. _Oh shit _he half murmured to himself before eagerly raising his hand, his face a forced flood of enthusiasm and excitement.

'Well, that's swell news, it really is. Is he here now, really now? But, before I get carried away with myself, can I just ask, Cyrus, is he ready to make a full commitment to the cause and work by the side of his brothers to build this community?'

'Thank you Marshall, you always show such enthusiasm for our work!' Blau replied, a rather hollow grin on his face. 'Darius has been brought up with the knowledge of his real identity a secret for obvious reasons. His adoptive parents have recently revealed to him some of his story, and have encouraged him to commit to our new community. He has followed their guidance, and is now here to meet us, to learn about our values, and eventually to accept his true parentage. So, I ask you gentlemen, not to reveal that until his family have had time to get to know him again and to create the bond which I know will soon be made between us.'

Blau snapped another button on his pad and the blinds and screen retreated, leaving them all blinking slightly in the sunlight. As the screen clunked into place, a polite, but persistant knocking started at the door, and it was swung open to reveal Fernando's curly head.

'Um, sorry sir, but Mrs Blau insists that you see this gentleman personally.' Behind him, Napoleon could see a shorter figure in overalls, a yellow van now parked at the front of the house with the letters GPO painted carefully across it. 'He's from the telephone exchange, he says' Fernando added, squinting at the man, who now began to squeeze in the door.

'Gentlemen, I'm sure you'll want to prepare for the auction and for our special guest's imminent arrival. The proceedings will begin at eleven o'clock in the stable area. Good morning.' They all rose to their feet, Napoleon dragging his as the others rushed for the door, slightly knocking both Fernando and the telephone engineer out of the way. Napoleon noticed Illya make a rapid exit from the room, giving the engineer an imperceptible look as he passed through the doorway.

'Well what is it?' Blau began, as the improbable figure of Vaz Fernandes strode up to him.

'It's awfully good of you to see me' he began, not even trying to disguise his accent. 'Your good lady has assured me that the telephone system in this house is operating at maximum efficiency, but I am required to inform you by law that we will make a short test of the telephone system of this house today. If, after that, there are no detectable faults, then we will leave you in peace, sir. I just need your signature for permission to carry out the test.' Napoleon was amazed Blau seemed to swallow Fernandes' explanation, but, with an audible sigh, he motioned him forward and signed.

'I appreciate your cooperation in this matter' Vaz continued, as Blau turned his back on him and faced Napoleon.

'I do not need these trifling matters now' he said, frowning.

'Certainly. Still, for someone from the English colonies, he was at least polite.' Blau smiled his usual cold smile again and began to lock away the papers in his desk drawer. Napoleon drew closer to Cecilia and grasped her arm, moving her away from Blau and towards the door. 'I think we need to talk' he said audibly enough for Blau to hear.

'About what?' she said, looking at her arm as if that would be enough to make Napoleon release her.

'About money of course' he replied, propelling her out of the room.

xxxxxxxx

It was hard not to let himself run at full tilt towards the stable block, but instead Illya forced himself to walk, and walk slowly enough to not make it appear that he was desperate to reach where he was going. It was a three sided building, extending round an attractive courtyard where large tubs of cascading petunias and geraniums were matched by equally blousy flowers massed in containers which once must have provided hay for the equine occupants of the yard. The large wooden doors on the left side of the block had been pushed back to reveal an impressive space inside; a stage one end with a built in screen and projector and two desks which reminded Illya of lecture theatres he had attended in New York; this time, the raked seats were substituted for rows of comfortable looking, upholstered chairs. At the back of the theatre, there were additional tables, upon which was a bank of telephones, no doubt for international calls to those who supplied the funds for those who would sit in the chairs.

From the outside, Illya knew that there would probably be access to the right of the stage into the central part of the building. A number of young men suddenly appeared behind him, carrying what were obviously picture frames swathed in pieces of soft linen. He watched them carry their packages down the side of the theatre and then disappear as they turned into what he guessed was some sort of holding area. As they came back, he could distinguish other voices, male and female coming from that place; they were loud enough for him to know immediately who they were and what they might be talking about.

'Do you trust me, Michael?'

'I did once, but you walked away, remember?' Therese tried to staunch the feelings of panic and fear that swirled round her and instead focused on Michael's face and what on earth she could say to prevent him from betraying Illya to the brother he obviously didn't know he had.

He had walked into the room when she was displaying the Chagall. Seeing it in front of her eyes felt like a near spiritual experience, making her crouch down in front of it, her eyes taking in its form and colour as if she had seen it for the first time. She ran her fingers very lightly down Ida's hair, remembering Illya's reaction to her own, which now sat softly on her shoulders, held back from her face by a very broad deep pink hairband similar in colour to the dress in the picture before her.

'_Qu'est-ce que tu penses?_ She murmured, half to herself, repeating the same question she had asked the girl in the picture a hundred times when she had gazed at the reproduction in her little study. She could hear her husband now, his accented tones, whispering from behind her, 'what's for dinner?' that's what she's thinking.' Despite herself, she began to laugh and stood up, the smile on her face now set in a frigid stare as she looked into Michael Dawkins' face.

'Tess?' he had spluttered out, 'What are you . . .' He had gazed round the room, seeing the paintings now, some displayed on easels while others were covered, awaiting their time.

She could see he was trying to put together the connections, joining up the Blaus with her and with himself, the jigsaw not quite making sense.

'Why are you here Michael?' she said before he could continue. 'I think you can see what I'm doing.' He looked suddenly confused, as if he understood her role, but only in part.

'I left the Army. I . . . well for the first time in my life I was a little unfocused. My parents, well my dad knows Mr and Mrs Blau and they have this project back in Iowa which they think I can be in on from the beginning. You know, it's a bit like the Amish – a new community. You'd approve, Tess, it's your kind of thing.'

Therese felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him, as, almost simultaneously she was struck with his resemblance to the man she so despised inside the house. For someone who had experienced the brutality of war he appeared intensely vulnerable and rather innocent, his handsome, chiselled face filled with uncertainty.

'Michael, this project, these people, they are not what they seem.' She looked round her, then pulled him towards a pair of rush-seated chairs that were lurking at the side of the room. They sat down facing each other.

'What do you mean, 'they're not what they seem'?' he blurted out, his voice sounding unnaturally loud and deep in the emptiness of the room.

'I mean that they're not a philanthropic organisation raising money to build a new utopia' she said passionately. 'See these paintings? They're stolen, Michael, stolen from people during the war, and now stolen again to fund some Nazi paradise that you're going to involve yourself with.'

Michael narrowed his eyes slightly and glanced round the room, taking in the uncovered painting just by Therese, and the more distant covered shapes behind her. The pink of her hair band drew his eye to the same colour in the picture, the painted woman seeming to merge with the living one in some strange synthesis. He stared at Therese and drew closer to her.

'Okay, so why are _you_ here, Tess?' He could see her hesitate now, her view of the wide opening to the courtyard blocked by his body, and a sudden silence descending on the room, occasionally punctuated by distant sounds of sea birds squawking as they swung across the house and out onto the beach.

'I'm here' she said, looking round at the paintings as if they could speak for her, 'to right something wrong, or at least to help right it.' Michael grasped her arm, slightly bending towards her, his blue eyes fixing her with a penetrating stare.

'He's here, isn't he Tess? Your _husband_, he got you into this?'

Therese frowned. 'Look Michael, you should know by now that I make my own decisions; I don't need a man, any man, to make them for me. Perhaps that's the reason I'm not married to you.' It was difficult to escape his stare, and Therese felt his hand strengthen its grip on her arm, his fingers closing like an iron brace on her skin. Dawkins let go of her arm and got up, the chair scraping on the ground as it skidded back slightly from him.

'He is here, nevertheless, whether you chose to come or not' he said slightly menacingly, as Therese stood up. He moved closer towards her, his breath coming in short gasps as he maintained his fixed stare.

'Yes, he's here' she said simply, not looking down, 'and you now have to make a decision Michael about all this' she murmured, her head slightly turning towards the paintings behind and around them. 'You can go ahead with them, with your community, knowing that it's being funded by totally illegal and immoral sources, or you can help Illya and I to stop it. Obviously, if you chose to go in with them, then you will have to betray him, but also me. We are together in this, he and I.' It was impossible for him not to see the expression on her face as she uttered the last words. He looked down, biting his lip.

'I finished with Marilyn. Mr Blau says there's someone here I ought to meet. Someone made for me.' He brought his hands up again and grasped Therese more gently this time, his face, or so it seemed to Therese, undergoing a subtle change. 'So, how much does he mean to you, Tess?'

Therese felt herself stiffen slightly in his grasp as the import of his words became clear.

'How much?' She shook her head slightly and gazed up at him. 'I think you know how much he means, Michael.' There was a hiatus between them, before he said, slowly, 'then give me just a little of what he has. I won't tell Mr Blau, I'll help you even, but I just want to know what it was I lost. He doesn't need to know. Then you can go back to your perfect little life together and I can go back to the car crash mine turned out to be.'

Therese wrenched herself backwards, her hair falling round her face as she pulled her band from her head.

'I will know, Michael' she said fiercely, 'I will know.' She stood rigidly still as he drew closer and pushing her hair back, took her in his arms and began to kiss her, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth as she gasped for breath. She felt the zip at the back of her dress ripped down as he pushed her back and down, his other hand loosening his own clothes and forcing her dress up her legs as she lay beneath him on the pile of coverings which had been removed from the paintings around them. Then suddenly, as if someone had turned something off within him, he stopped. He rolled off her, buttoning his trousers, and gently tugged her dress down before sitting back and then kneeling, his hands clutched to his face.

Therese was aware of a sound from just outside the room as she sat up. Michael continued to kneel, frozen like a plaster angel dazzled by what was before him. She zipped up her dress and put her hands gently on his still immobile arms.

'Michael, look at me.' After a few moments, he withdrew his hands and looked into her face, an expression of utter bewilderment etched on his own.

'I . . I . I'm so sorry.' An enormous sob seemed to force its way out of him, the paintings silent witnesses to his pain. Therese laid his head on her shoulder and began to rub his back in large, concentric circles, the sobbing gradually ebbing away as her hand passed rhythmically across him. As she stared in front of her, she then knew that he had been there, and had seen and heard what had passed between them.

'Michael, listen. After the auction, you must talk to Illya. I will explain, _or I'll try'_ she thought grimly, 'and then it will be up to you to decide. Please don't feel bad for what's happened, it will work out, it will.' He looked up slowly, taking in the earnest golden brown eyes searching his face.

'He's lucky, I hope he knows how damn lucky he is' he muttered. Therese began to smile.

'It's not luck, Michael. You know that it couldn't have worked between us, and trying to make it work, even for a few moments would have made it worse. Illya and I, well, it's not as perfect as you may think; on the face of it we're very different people, and sometimes his job, well, some people think people like him shouldn't be married. But there is something between us, something powerful, greater than us even, that binds us.' For a moment, he saw the expression in her eyes that he'd seen before. He pulled himself to his feet, helping her up gently, as if she could be broken by his touch. Therese adjusted her dress, running her fingers through her thick wavy hair.

'Michael, this is going to be difficult for you' Therese murmured, glancing round the room. 'You are going to have to trust Illya, and he may find it as difficult as you do. You don't have to like him, remember, just trust him. There may be things you discover about yourself today that will be difficult, but listen,' and she grasped his arm warmly, her face lit up by a lovely, lilting smile, 'after it's over, we can still be friends, you and I.' She gave a sort of low chuckle before continuing, 'you may even get to appreciate my husband's finer points once you get past the rather hard exterior and your own prejudices against Russians.' Dawson stared at her, and shook his head a little.

'Tess, you are a one off, you know that? After how I just behaved, I deserve you to slap me in the face and wish that I'd crawl under the nearest rock.' Therese grinned, smoothing down her dress and walking to the end of the room with him.

'Life's too short not to forgive a lot and often' she said simply. 'It's probably the warm, Mediterranean blood in me, eh?'

xxxxxxxxxx

'Sit down. You're a hard girl to catch up with.' Napoleon's room had been cleaned immaculately since breakfast, and he glanced round, checking that nothing of importance had been moved. It was a random piece of luck that had given him Fernando as an assistant, thereby making life a little easier; however, he still had made sure before leaving his room that anything remotely suspicious was well removed from view.

'I thought we had gone over the arrangements for the transfer of funds already, Mr Zweigart,' Cecilia said curtly, seeming unwilling to look Napoleon in the eye. Napoleon sighed a little and dropped into the tub chair facing hers by the window at the side of the room. It was possible to see the stable block from this angle; he could see a number of the guests beginning to make their way into the large room on the left side, but since they came up here, he hadn't caught sight of Michael Dawkins at all.

He dragged his gaze away from the window and stared at Cecilia. Nothing of any interest to him had come his way from the phone tap, which included anything for Cecilia Luft. He needed to know whether she had shown or sent Illya's picture to Bolt, and what reaction there had been, but it was a huge risk to reveal himself to her and ask her to betray the woman she was obviously infatuated with. The drug Ottilie Blau was in possession of suggested that Cecilia was not the only person with a connection to Bolt in this house. He had to balance the risks before his partner faced the very real possibility of being betrayed by at least two different people at the same time.

'I was wondering, seeing that you're a girl, and they seem to know these things' he said, whether you knew about the goings on tonight?' Cecilia stared at him, as if this was the last thing she was expecting him to say.

'Er, well I presume you know about the theme of the evening' she began, her eyes widening slightly.

'Yeah, I had heard. Sounds interesting' he replied, smiling. 'Sounds like Ottilie has a special role for both our rather attractive art expert and our interpreter friend.' Cecilia sniffed slightly.

'Ottilie sometimes has a rather unusual fascination for some people' she said rather coldly. 'She has this _obsession_ for beautiful forms, you know. It was obvious she desired Miss McCaffery from the beginning, and Herr Krause, well, she has the ability to see beyond the outwardly marred, to what is underneath. And he is beautiful, is he not, although not to my taste.'

Something about the words she used sounded strange to Napoleon. The references to his partner and Therese as objects to be desired and used made him feel uncomfortable. Nothing of the love he felt for both of them existed in her description.

'Yeah, he's a good looking guy, but his hair is a mess' Napoleon replied, smirking slightly.

'Yes, well no doubt if he joins the new _heimat_ in Iowa, that will have to go' she said, 'but I rather think Ottilie is saving it for tonight's spectacle. She told me she has something special she wants him to wear.' Napoleon frowned.

'What, a costume?'

'Yes, the costume will be interesting, but I understand from that _coiffeur_ of hers that she has something special to apply to his hair, some compound.'

Napoleon tugged at his chin and made a wry face at Cecilia. She didn't appear to know any more than she had told him, so he would have to let his partner interrogate Raymond as to the nature of the compound Ottilie had in mind for him. He gazed at her for a moment. Either she was a remarkably good actor and liar, or she still had no idea of the true identity of his partner and himself for that matter. He felt reasonably confident that he could persuade her to help him, but, until he received some sort of confirmation from Vaz of the direct link between Bolt and Ottilie Blau, it seemed too great a risk. If that were proved, then he could very easily drive a wedge through their relationship, using himself as the alternative attraction.

Napoleon glanced at his watch at the same time as he noticed his partner walking rapidly from the stable block, his face rather pale and set. He rose to his feet quickly and went towards the door.

'I'm sorry Cecilia, there's something I need to deal with before the auction begins. I'll catch you later, right?' He saw a fleeting look of disappointment on her face which pleased him. She got up and turned away from him.

'Of course, Marshall. _A bientôt_.'

He caught up with Illya in the corridor outside the Russian's room. He could see him fumbling slightly with the key, which gave Napoleon the chance to reach the door as it opened and stop it from being closed before he could follow his partner's scowling figure into the room.

'What is it? I need to be alone for a while' Kuryakin said rather harshly, indicating clearly to Napoleon that there was something not quite smooth that needed to be ironed out.

'I don't think so' Napoleon replied calmly, watching his partner throw his jacket on the bed and begin to root through his attaché case for something that Napoleon guessed he had no idea he wanted. Eventually he stopped and sat down on the bed, the normally placid face filled with rare agitation.

'Wanna tell me about it?'

Illya characteristically ran his hand through his hair, making it swirl wildly until it flopped back round his face. He frowned and then sighed, Napoleon waited until he knew that the Russian had exhausted all logical attempts at understanding his own emotions.

'Napoleon, do you think I'm, well, would you describe me as unreasonably, .. you know about Tess .. . I mean . .'

Napoleon smiled and held out his hand in front of him like a traffic policeman.

'Stop. What did you see or hear?'

Illya looked down for a minute before staring at his partner with a look of stunned confusion reminiscent of his twin babies when someone had just taken away their favourite toy. For the tenth time in as many hours, Napoleon regretted his decision to encourage Tess's involvement. He considered himself to be absolutely in love with his wife and committed to her, but this man's passionate connection to the girl with the wavy brown hair was so intense Napoleon could feel it in the air between them, like some giant electric current running through the room.

'When I knew Dawkins was here I went to warn her' he began rather quickly, 'but when I got to the room where she was, he was already there. I could hear them as I approached, but I hesitated. After the incident at that party, I didn't want to appear as immature as I was then.' Napoleon smirked slightly at his partner's description. The adjective was the last he would ever have used for him in the field, but Kuryakin at home was always a revelation. He got up and fetched Illya a glass of water before sitting down again in the chair by his partner's bedroom window.

'They were having a rather intense discussion' he continued. 'I couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, but then suddenly he grabbed her, and then . . .' he stopped, his lips pursed together as if unwilling to form the words that would come next.

'OK. I get the picture' Napoleon said quietly. Illya remained silent for a few moments before continuing. 'Napoleon, I walked away and stood in the courtyard for a while. I left her in there with him and I did nothing to prevent him from . .'

'Are you sure it went that far?' Napoleon interrupted.

'It went far enough' Kuryakin replied darkly, turning away a little, then getting up and standing by the window next to Napoleon's chair. Napoleon frowned, then dug his partner slightly in the waist.

'Think carefully now. Why do you think it happened? And don't just say 'he made her'. Call me stupid, but I find it hard to believe that he was able to do whatever he did, and remember, you don't know exactly what happened.

'You may think Therese is Wonderwoman' Illya said, staring out of the window, but even she would be unable to prevent a man of his size from . .'

'Don't jump down my throat, but have you considered that she _allowed_ him to touch her for some reason ..'. Illya looked down, his face twitching momentarily with pain.

'Please, don't say she allowed him to . . for _my _sake?'

Napoleon wasn't quick enough to prevent being showered in glass as he leapt to his feet. His partner stood transfixed for a few seconds, a shard of glass stuck in his palm where he had crushed the glass, water and blood splashing against his leg in dark gash like streams. Napoleon ran into the bathroom and returned with a towel, wrapping it round Illya's hand after he had gently removed the glass from his partner's palm.

'In my bag. Wardrobe' Illya was able to say, before sitting down suddenly on the chair facing Napoleon's. In the bottom of a small suitcase, Napoleon retrieved the UNCLE 'repair kit' as he termed it, carrying it back and laying it out on a small coffee table just behind Illya's head. He could see that the Russian was not in immense pain, but the wound, judging from the shard of glass he had removed, was deep, cutting open the fleshy part of Illya's palm.

'Now I have a matching pair' Illya said grimly, turning his other hand over to reveal a thin white scar running across the palm.

Napoleon worked in silence, injecting the site and then stitching the wound, before applying a dressing and bandage. Strangely, Illya offered no comment or resistance, as if the actions of his partner gave him space to contemplate what had happened in the building visible from the window.

After clearing the set and secreting it back into the case, Napoleon returned with another glass of water. He watched Illya sip it before taking it from him and setting it down on the table. He fetched the jacket from the bed and sat down on the chair.

'Here. Now go talk to her, right? And no immature behaviour, right?' Illya nodded, smiling a little ruefully at last. He got up and put on his jacket, gazing at the bandaged hand.

'I hope this won't be too much of a handicap'.

'You've managed with worse. Now go, speak nicely to the lady, and I'll see you after the auction'. As they were leaving the room, after glancing down the corridor, Illya turned.

'Thank you Napoleon' he said quietly, a small smile escaping his lips.

'Any time, any place' Napoleon replied. 'Oh, I forgot.' He shut the door and Illya stood with his back to it, a quizzical, impatient look on his face. 'When you go up to see your friend Raymondo for your new look, don't forget to find out about the potion Mrs B has in mind for your hair.'

'My hair?' Illya touched his head as if that would confer knowledge of what his partner was talking about.

'You heard. Apparently, she has some additional product that will add that little something to your outfit. Presumably this has to be the reason why you're still possessed of the long flowing locks, comrade.' Illya sighed very deeply and turned round.

'Good God' he muttered.

xxxxxxx

She was standing on the stage, staring intently at a clip board as he entered the auction room, the first painting already on a large easel behind her. The room was already half full, the bidders looking through professional looking catalogues of the items to be auctioned, while at the back, Illya could see Cecilia Luft among those who were manning the bank of telephones. Napoleon hadn't mentioned anything to him of what Vaz was listening to on the line tap, but he guessed that a great deal of information about the buyers of these works of art would be gained during the next hours.

He approached the stage and ran lightly up the steps, coming up to Therese before she realised he was there. Her face, so familiar to him, betrayed no guilt or shame, only the usual earnest concerned look she always wore when she hadn't seen him for a while.

'Your hand, what . .?'

'It's nothing, just an accident.' He glanced round, and then grasping her arm lightly, propelled her gently towards the side of the stage and into the back room where the other paintings were being carefully stacked in order, for the sale. He began to speak to her in soft Spanish, gradually moving them away from the young men behind them.

'You were there' she started calmly.

'Yes.'

'Do you want me to tell you what happened?'

'Yes. But only if you want to.' Therese could see the last painting being moved out of the room behind her husband's back. She stroked his face, touching his hair and brushing it back away from the strained face it surrounded.

'I want to. Illya, he, Michael that is, is in a mess. All his life everything has gone to plan, and now, it's as if it's all been pulled out from under him. His career, his fiancée, it's all fallen apart, and he's drowning. And now no doubt he's going to discover something about himself that will make it even worse.'

'Michael Dawkins is a Blau, Tess. He's the lost brother.' She sighed and looked away, shaking her head, then turned back, her hair moving on her shoulders in fat waves.

'He lost his head a little in here. He asked me to give him a little of what he thinks he lost, and you have, in return for not betraying you. I don't know how much you saw, darling, but when it came to it, he just couldn't go through with it. He's ready to speak to you now, and I want you to promise me you'll not be, well, hard with him.' Illya stared into her face, and then pulled her towards him, a sort of visceral feeling of need overcoming him with desire for her body to be close to his.

'I left you there with him. I . .I walked away' he stammered into her hair. She pushed him away a little, cupping his chin with her hand.

'He asked me how much you meant to me' she said slowly. 'I knew what he wanted, but I thought he wouldn't go through with it. There's decency at his centre, Illya, a goodness which prevented him from making a mistake he would come to regret. It could have gone horribly wrong, but sometimes one has to believe that people will make the right decisions.'

'If I promise to be kind to him, I want you to promise me that this is the last time you do this' Illya said, holding her hair back from her face in a bunch. She smiled, and then put her arm round his waist.

'And what are you going to do for me in return?' she said wickedly, twisting herself round to face him.

'Don't ask, because it usually results in something we might come to regret in nine months' time' he replied laconically.

Ottilie Blau stepped back from the doorway and glanced at the piece of paper she had retrieved from her bag. She walked swiftly to the back of the auction room, vaguely acknowledging the now filled rows of interested bidders, and picked up the telephone receiver that was being anxiously proffered by one of the young men on the table.

'Yes, I received the picture. Pretty name. Yes I have a plan, so don't worry, by tonight that little problem will be, let's say, _resolved_.'

CHAPTER 14

Michael Dawson's bulk looked distinctly at odds with the rather delicate Louis XV chair he was sitting in, Napoleon decided. His long, muscular legs were splayed out in front of him, causing a problem for the other bidders attempting to squeeze past him towards other chairs in the same row. Napoleon could see that his attention was focused only on one person in the room, his eyes following her as she moved round the stage, checking the pictures against a list she had obviously prepared on her clip board. And, on the other side of the stage, somebody else had blue eyes riveted on him.

It was difficult to know if his partner had spoken to Tess, but he was certainly not paying her any attention now. Kuryakin had appeared from the side of the stage as Napoleon had sat down next to Schmidt, who acknowledged his presence with a tight smile before continuing to read his catalogue. Napoleon had greeted Cecilia briefly as he entered the room, giving Ottilie Blau a quick nod and a smile as she was replacing the telephone in its receiver at the back of the room. Something told him that speaking to Vaz might be a good idea, but it was obvious from the activity on the stage and amongst the bidders, that the auction was about to begin.

'And where is the lovely Claudia this afternoon?' Napoleon murmured as Schmidt shut his catalogue abruptly.

'Wives are not involved in this part of the proceedings' Schmidt replied rather patronisingly, 'I believe she's helping with the preparations for tonight.' Napoleon steepled his fingers in front of his lips, watching Illya adjusting the microphone in front of the small desk he was sitting at.

'And the other preparations for tonight are in place?' he murmured. Without looking up Schmidt nodded.

_'Ja_, we will make sure that the necessary parcel is ready to leave by 11pm with our little man from the Post Office' he replied. He had hardly finished speaking when Napoleon was aware of someone standing behind him. He rose swiftly to his feet and turned, a lazy smile concreting itself to his lips as he took in the sight of Cyrus Blau with Michael Dawkins at his side. Solo hadn't noticed Michael get up, but it was almost as obvious to him that they were brothers as it was that the three children he had met at a New York restaurant what seemed like aeons ago were his partner's children.

'Marshall, permit me to introduce Michael, who I hope is going to be a very important part of our new community' Blau began. 'Mr Zweigart has been extremely helpful to our organisation, and I am hoping he will make an even bigger contribution today' he continued. Napoleon grinned and shook Michael Dawson's hand, aware that his partner's gaze was upon them.

'I've been hearing some great things about you, Mike' he said, 'we'll tee up soon and have a chat about your plans.' Dawkins nodded, a slightly puzzled look appearing on his face as he stared at Napoleon.

'Um, that would be good, Mr Zweigart.' Michael muttered, before glancing back at the stage.

'She's a good looking girl' Napoleon ventured, glancing at Cyrus, whose face expressed approval of Napoleon's comment.

'Yes, I told Michael that there was someone here we feel would be an excellent companion for him' he replied, a rather sickly smile creeping across his features. Michael looked at them both, then at Therese; despite his size he seemed like a young boy between two rather manipulative adults.

'Yeah, she is_ exceptionally_ beautiful' he said, the word lingering on his lips as if he wanted it to stay there. Napoleon glanced behind him and saw that Ottilie had disappeared, Cecilia now being the only woman in the room apart from Therese. Cyrus nodded to Napoleon and began to walk to the front, getting onto the stage and standing next to Illya, who had now donned the rather expensive looking glasses he'd been given in New York. He had tried to comb his hair into some sort of order, Napoleon knowing of old that it would soon be back to its usual floppy uncontrolled self as soon as he moved his head a few times.

Cyrus pulled the microphone towards him and tapped it several times before clearing his throat in a clear signal that the proceedings were about to begin.

'Gentlemen, welcome. I do hope that by the end of this afternoon not only will you have in your possession a unique work of art, but that our ultimate dream will be one step nearer. Before we begin, I would like to introduce you to someone who I think will become very special to us all in the years to come. I am proud to say that he has agreed to spearhead the planning and execution of our new community. Gentlemen, may I introduce Mr Michael Dawkins.'

There was thunderous clapping from the audience, as Michael moved towards the stage and then stood next to Blau. He smiled politely at the now enthusiastically clapping men in front before Napoleon saw him glance towards the man sitting at the desk next to Blau. Suddenly, something about the Russian's expression changed. Napoleon could see that across the stage, some kind of wordless communication had taken place, resulting in an instant melting of the frostbitten stare which Kuryakin had hitherto met the gaze of the other man.

After a few seconds more clapping, Blau raised his hand. Looking relieved, Michael jumped down from the stage, heading straight towards Napoleon where he attempted to squeeze himself into one of the delicate chairs next to Solo. Illya was now on his feet, Blau standing between him and Therese, who looked calmly at her notes as he talked.

'As explained in the catalogue, Miss McCaffery will give a brief introduction to each painting in English. If you wish to ask any questions in another language, then Mr Krause will act as interpreter.' Illya immediately translated his instructions into several different languages, Napoleon marvelling at the fluent, confident transition between them. Looking at them on the stage, an image of the two of them sitting in their basement kitchen filled his mind. Tess's method of teaching her husband Catalan involved a large selection of cupcakes, which she would allow him to choose from if he was able to answer her questions correctly. Napoleon still wondered how useful the phrase 'Yes, I can satisfy all your bodily desires' might be in her husband's work.

He was jerked from his reverie by the sudden revealing of the picture he had seen so many times in miniature on the wall of his partner's study. Therese stood to the side of it, her hand laid gently on the heavy frame onto which it had been stretched. She put down her notes and began to speak, her voice rich and clear, the audience drawn to her every bit as much as she seemed to be to the picture in front of her.

After she had finished speaking, there was a brief silence in the room, as if the assembled buyers had for once put aside their baser reasons for the acquisition of the work before them and had, for once, allowed themselves to explore with the woman in front of them, the painting and its story. Napoleon saw Illya look across at her from under his thick thatch of hair, a sudden flash of emotion darting from him to her, then his face returning to its normal unreadable self.

A man, whom Napoleon rightly supposed was in charge of the business of the auction, appeared next to Kuryakin, breaking the atmosphere she had created in the room.

'I am going to begin the bidding for this work at one hundred thousand pounds' he said into the microphone, causing Napoleon to immediately raise his hand.

'Try not to be too enthusiastic' he heard Schmidt murmur in his ear. 'Otherwise your clothing allowance may be seriously limited in the future.' Napoleon smirked slightly and returned his attention to the bidding, which was now going fairly briskly, a tall thin man with a very shiny domed head seeming to be Napoleon's main rival for the painting. He could see Tess looking at him anxiously, then glancing across at her husband, who appeared to be staring myopically into space.

After a few more tense minutes of bidding, the thin man shook his head at the auctioneer and, with a resounding crash that made Illya jump slightly, the auctioneer brought the hammer down on the sale.

'Sold to Mr Zweigart for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds' he declared, handing a small note to a nearby young man who Napoleon realised was Jonathan, Illya's overzealous attendant. He saw Kuryakin glare at him as he leaned across to take the note, the boy not appearing to take the hint, and smiling broadly at the scowling Russian.

Napoleon got out of his seat and met him as he rushed down the side of the room. Taking the card from him, Solo walked slowly to the bank of telephones at the back of the room, and began to dial.

'Hello old chap, made a purchase then?'

'And good morning to you. I'd like you to transfer two hundred and fifty thousand pounds from my number twelve account to this account number.' He read off some details from the card, the account numbers appearing similar to those he had looked at with Cecilia.

'You do realise that these account numbers differ slightly from the other ones you gave me, old chap? Presumably Miss L has done a little creative accounting.' Napoleon looked down the line of telephones; Cecilia was standing by the wall behind them, staring at Illya, whose voice he could hear translating a question from a buyer from Brazil about the picture currently being auctioned.

'Yes, that would be correct' he continued. 'Make sure that enquiry is followed up, won't you? The trustees will expect the account to be closed in the near future.' Before he could continue, Vaz interrupted, his voice immediately assuming a more serious tone.

'Thank God you called, I was beginning to think I'd have to make another entrance' he said. Napoleon turned round. The auction was proceeding as before, and there was no sign of any increased activity by Blau or any of his staff in the room.

'Go on' he said calmly, smiling at Cecilia who had now noticed him, but, fortunately, remained where she was.

'We intercepted something just before your little auction started, so I couldn't risk using the communicators' he began. 'The tracers think it was coming from Bermuda, routed through London, so you can guess who was making the call.'

'Uh-huh.' A feeling of hush seemed to descend round Napoleon, even though the bidding was now proceeding furiously in the room. He could see Illya staring at him, before he was drawn back into the melée of the auction.

'Your girlfriend must have sent her Kuryakin's photo. It sounded as if she's known for a few days; at any rate you have to get them out of there before your little shindig gets out of hand, otherwise it sounds like she's planned something pretty unpleasant for them both.'

'And which account holder are we referring to here?'

'Your lovely hostess of course; Mrs Blau. It appears that your Miss Luft is yet another pawn in the Bolt chess game for total world domination.'

Xxxxxxxxx

The room felt like a _dèja-vu_ experience to Illya; apart from the two large sash windows at one side, it was a replica of the one in which he had endured Raymond's attentions in New York. He could see that it was not simply one room either; a door to the side clearly led to another, smaller set of rooms where he imagined other treatments might be meted out on the subjects invited therein.

He had followed Tess at a discreet distance after the auction had ended, his mind torn between concern for her and what had been going on at the back of the room during the bidding. He had seen Napoleon make the call to Vaz, and had noticed his partner's face change from his usual cheerful confidence to a look of concern that made Illya's chest tighten a little. In the general hubbub at the end of the auction he had been unable to reach him and besides, Napoleon had exited the room giving his partner the impression that he needed to speak to someone other than him rather urgently.

By the time he got to the room Tess had disappeared, distant sounds from behind the adjacent door being the only clue to where she had gone. He wandered round the room, staring out of the window for a while at the young male assistants taking food and culinary equipment towards a large marquee like structure which had been assembled on the back lawn during the afternoon. The window gave a clear view of the marquee, an elaborate structure composed of an open sided, striped tent with a conical roof like a fairy tale castle, and an adjoining smaller tent at its rear, a small, caravan like vehicle attached he supposed, for the production of refreshments during the evening. He turned away from the windows towards a set of fitted closets lining the opposite wall, the only other furniture being the chair in the middle of the room and a similar set of shelves on the other wall, with a similar array of potions and creams to that he had seen in New York.

He looked at his watch, then cursorily tried one of the closet doors, which resisted his touch firmly. Sighing, he started to turn round, as he felt a hand on his shoulder

'Oh, there you are, we were wondering where you'd got to.'

Raymond stood in front of him, a small key with a gold tassel in his hand, and behind him stood Therese. She was wearing a kind of diaphanous dress of fine, translucent material, upon which were woven a variety of flowers, making her look as if they were alive and growing on her body. Her hair had been let free, except for a woven crown of silk leaves and flowers which surrounded her head. She was holding a kind of wand with the same flowers winding round it, the theme repeated over the delicate little slippers on her feet.

'_La Primavera'_ he murmured, her face appreciative of his remembrance of the Botticelli painting she now had brought to life. Raymond signalled to her to sit down on a small chair by the window, while opening one of the closets with the key. Inside, there hung another costume, together with matching accessories on shelves by its side. Illya could see immediately that it was a kind of male version of the 'Primavera' costume worn by his wife, the translucent material a darker green colour, with a pattern of leaves rather than flowers throughout. Raymond unhooked the hanger and thrust it towards Illya, unaware of Therese's barely concealed grin behind him.

'Now, go in there are put it on, and make sure you take all this off first, OK?' he said, waving theatrically in Illya's direction.

Taking the costume with a barely concealed scowl, he headed for the door from which Raymond and his wife had entered. The room was divided into a series of cubicle like areas, with curtains in front of each one. He pulled the curtain aside and hung the costume up, before sitting on the seat and pulling out his communicator. Whatever the risk, he had to know what it was that had made his partner so worried. Twisting the cap round, he held the cylindrical receiver before his lips, praying that his partner would be able to receive his call in safety.

Almost instantaneously Napoleon answered.

'I was going to call, but I thought you might be otherwise engaged' Solo said good naturedly.

'Well luckily for us, changing rooms are provided for those with special costumes' Illya replied, glancing with a frown at the delicate clothes in front of him, and beginning to take off his tie and shoes as he spoke. 'I had the distinct impression this afternoon that there may be a problem.'

'How very observant of you. It appears that, as we feared, your favourite female has paired up with our hostess, with possibly devastating implications for you and your nearest and dearest.' Illya stood up and wrenched the belt of his trousers open and pulled down the zip, allowing them to drop to the floor on top of the other clothes he'd thrown down. He stepped away from the pile and began to unbutton his shirt.

'I have the feeling that this evening's entertainment will not be good for my health' he whispered. Sabi is going to take Therese and make sure she is not molested, and I would be grateful for at least a little protection between now and whenever you've arranged for Section Three to arrive. To be honest, I'm surprised that she hasn't just told her husband about Tess and I already.'

'If she did that, he might wonder how she got hold of such information. No, I think she wants to impress her new friend with something that will appeal to her warped sense of fun.' Illya made a face at the communicator, before sitting down and pulling off his socks.

'Listen Illya' Solo continued, rather more urgently, 'Put that little direction finder thingummy on so I can find you if you come adrift from your communicator. If I can't raise you, I'll send you a little reminder to meet me at the Ice House, OK?' There was a brief silence before Kuryakin answered,

'What sort of reminder?'

'Well the direction finder has an added ingredient. You'll know when it happens. I need to speak to Miss Luft fairly urgently, and try to persuade her that her girlfriend is not worth ruining her life for.'

'And I suppose you are going to offer an alternative?' There was a brief silence before Napoleon replied,

'Got any better suggestions?' I'm pretty convinced she's attracted to my magnetic personality, especially since she hasn't sent any nice snapshots of me to her friend in Bermuda. She may prove extremely useful in helping us trace the line back to Bolt, especially as you'll be otherwise engaged.' Illya heard the communicating door with the adjacent room open.

'Have to go.' He said and broke the communication, just managing to stow the communicator in his shoe before Raymond put his head round the curtain.

'I said take it all off' he said, slightly rolling his eyes at Illya.

'If you insist' he replied, turning his back to the curtain and hearing it swish to behind him. Reaching down for his left shoe, he twisted the heel and removed a skin-coloured disk from it. With his other hand, he removed his underpants before attaching the disk to his left testicle. Twisting back the heel, he dropped his shoe and sat down, taking off his vest and adding it to the untidy pile on the floor.

He squinted at the costume, before standing up and removing it from the hanger. It appeared to be in one piece, the torso in a slightly heavier, stretchy material, the arms and legs being made of something more transparent. He sat down and managed to push his legs through, before pulling it up and forcing his arms through the top part. A number of words in Russian escaped his lips as he glanced at himself in the mirror. Despite the appliqued leaves, it left nothing to the imagination, the fabric clinging to his torso like a thin, green skin. He sat down and pulled the delicate leather pumps onto his feet, as the curtain was swished aside to reveal Raymond, his mouth gaping as Illya stood up.

'Oh my!' he exclaimed slowly, pulling him out of the cubicle, 'you look just . . . _fabulous_!' Illya groaned, watching him picking up and folding his clothes. The absurdity of his costume momentarily distracted him, and it was only the clunk of his communicator on the floor that alerted him to his lack of attention. He knelt down swiftly and picked it up, forcing Raymond into the cubicle with him. The other man's eyes widened, betraying the sudden fear now so obvious on his face. Illya pushed him down gently onto the seat and sat facing him, holding the communicator between them.

'Don't be frightened, I won't hurt you' he began. Before he could continue, Raymond blurted out, 'you're another one of those undercover British policemen aren't you? Like the curly haired guy?' He had to think for a moment before realising who Raymond was referring to.

'Um, well not exactly, but near' he said, smiling. 'I do work with him though. Now,' he said, handing Raymond the communicator, 'with this on, I am temporarily unable to keep my communicator on me. I was wondering if you could look after it for me.'

Raymond's mouth gaped slightly, before he nodded, taking the communicator as if it might burn him if he gripped it too tightly.

'Communicator' he said very slowly, 'like, a kind of walkey-talkey?'

'Yes, sort of. Um, Raymond, it works like this.' He pulled off the cap and mimicked turning the top, before replacing the cap and handing it back to the other man. 'Listen carefully. We may require you to help us this evening and if we do, we'll contact you via this.' He saw Raymond looking at him closely, his soft, open face looking simultaneously both confused and trusting.

'So, you're not, I mean, your name . . .' Illya smiled gently and stood up.

'No. I'm not German and my name is Illya, Illya Kuryakin. Look, I'll explain everything later, but I think we should join Miss McCaffery now.' As they went towards the door, Raymond pulled his arm back.

'Um, Mr, er Kuryakin' he whispered, 'Mrs Blau, she's er . . .'

'Yes, she does seem a bit obsessed with me.'

'Oh no, I mean yes, she is interested in you, but you're not her _obsession_.'

Illya stopped, momentarily confused by Raymond's statement. Raymond put his hand on Illya's arm, before murmuring,

'It's Miss McCaffery, she's the one, she's her obsession, Illya.'


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 15

Glancing at his watch, Napoleon was surprised to see that it was already well past the cocktail hour. Preparations on the lawn at the back of the house appeared to be almost complete, a ring of torch-like objects having been plunged into the lawn to provide lighting for the evening, in addition to the strings of fairy lights festooning the marquee. He stepped back from the window and walked swiftly along the corridor towards Cecilia's room.

If she was shocked by his presence she managed to hide it well, turning her back on him and fiddling with some delicate gold earrings as he shut the door behind them. She was wearing a deep green dress of some kind of clinging velvet material, the fabric matching her eyes and, like them, changing its hue from green to black in the diminishing light of the evening. Eventually she turned, taking in his costume with a long, slow gaze.

'Very fetching. The colour suits you, Marshall.' Napoleon for a moment caught himself agreeing with her. The deep wine coloured long sleeveless waistcoat over a loose, full-sleeved shirt felt good, although he was yet to be convinced by the dark gold breeches and the buckled shoes.

'Thank you. The clothes are interesting, but I'm not sure about the weaponry' he replied, touching the gun tucked into the belt round his waist. Compared to his Walther PPK it looked a poor thing, made of light, thin metal, with a large short barrel. It appeared to have been pre-loaded with some kind of dart which Fernando had told him about as he helped him on with his costume.

' Have you thought, Napoleon, that somebody is trying out stuff here?'

Napoleon had jerked his head up from studying the so-called gun to stare at his brother-in-law. Fernando put Napoleon's jerkin on the bed before wandering over to the window.

'I presume you mean by 'someone', the lovely Miss Bolt.' Napoleon said, putting the gun down and picking up the jerkin.

'Absolutely. You see this?' He picked up the gun and pointed to the clip, which appeared to be fixed in a way that couldn't be opened or re-loaded. 'In here are the darts we talked about earlier, one of which my friend Raymond managed to pass along to me before they were put in these things. The boys at Cambridge reckon that the drug in them is, well, it's like something you'd give a girl at a party if you wanted . . .'

'To have your wicked way with her and didn't want any arguments.' Napoleon replied rather seriously, looking at the gun.

'Exactly. Well, almost exactly. True to form, this is a more powerful version of the drug, which is why we all had to have that excruciating injection' Fernando continued. 'However, that doesn't seem to be the only experiment our friend Lee-Hua is conducting tonight.' He watched Napoleon pull on the jerkin and then strap the wide black belt loosely round his waist before shoving the gun inside it.

'You remember me telling you about the hair potion, or whatever it is, destined for our brother-in-law?'

'Don't tell me, Raymondo slipped you a sample' Napoleon replied, bending down to buckle up his shoes before joining Fernando at the window.

'Yes, but he only gave it to me this afternoon. Apparently Mrs B is keeping it very much to herself, but she left it out in her room for a few moments and he managed to get some. He really has been very helpful, Napoleon.'

'Well, tell him he'll be mentioned in despatches. Now, the potion . . .?' Fernando looked grave for a few moments, so unlike his usual placid expression.

'They had to take it to Cambridge for analysis, so we've only had the barest of information so far' he began hesitantly.

'OK, so . . . ., what, it gives you a whole new take on blond, what?' Fernando leaned against the window, his long, lean body pressed against the glass, the setting sun catching and intensifying the auburn lights in his curling hair. He frowned, as if the words needed his utmost concentration to make sense of.

'The chemical makes some sort of irreversible bond with the hair shaft it's applied to' he began, so once it's on . . .'

'It won't come off' Napoleon finished, not liking the sound of what might be coming next.

'They said it only seems to work like that on hair, which is presumably why it's being used in this form, and, the more hair it's applied to, the more potent it becomes, obviously.'

'So, on someone with relatively long hair it's . . .'

'Very potent. Absolutely. Illya's hair is . .

'Just perfect for it.' Napoleon said. He frowned at Fernando, aware of the fairy lights on the marquee suddenly flickering into life through the window behind him.

'That still doesn't tell me what exactly this stuff does' he said, going towards the door.

'Er, they're not entirely sure just yet, but they think it's some sort of artificial sort of human pheronome of immense strength but with some very odd characteristics.' Napoleon groaned inwardly. The thought of his partner being the sexual object of every woman in the near vicinity filled him with dismay. Despite that, the thought of explaining all this to Kuryakin could be amusing.

'Well, he's going to love that on several different levels' he said. 'As soon as you know more about this compound, make sure you contact me directly using Channel D, OK? In the meantime, if we could prevent her applying it that would make all our lives a great deal easier.' He walked over to the bureau and taking a piece of paper, made a short list which he thrust into Fernando's hand.

'Ask your friend Raymond for the stuff you can't find in Illya's room' he said, and hide it somewhere in the ice house. If even half of what I imagine might be going on tonight takes place, Illya is going to need our help to get out of this.'

Cecilia walked over to a chair by the window and picked up a pale green silk shawl, which she began to drape round her shoulders. Napoleon came up behind her, and, putting his hand on her shoulder, gently turned her towards him. He could smell the perfume on her neck as he bent his head towards her and kissed her, her lips drawing him into her somehow as her body became welded to his own. After a few moments he stopped and drew his head back slightly, staring at Cecilia's face, her eyes half-closed as she leaned back from him.

'Starting early, Marshall?' she murmured, her breasts rising a little with each breath she took. He smiled, then kissed her briefly again.

'I was wondering,' he began slowly, 'whether your friend in Geneva kisses you like I do, or whether she's just not the kissing type.'

She stiffened abruptly, her face looking as if it had been set in concrete at his words. Napoleon held her tightly, not allowing her to even turn. After a few more moments of struggling, she stopped, a hard, frightened look coming into her eyes.

'Now, are you going to listen, or shall we just carry on like this?' he said quietly, a serious expression coming into his face which seemed to drain her of energy. She sagged slightly, and he pushed her down into the chair before dragging up its partner into the space by the windows.

'I . . I don't know what you mean', she said, her head slumped on her chest until Napoleon, lifting her chin, made her look at him.

'Oh I think you do. Last year you allowed Miss Lee-Hua Bolt into your apartment and your life for reasons which no doubt you can explain to me at a later date. For her own purposes, Ms Bolt has persuaded you to commit serious bank fraud, presumably deluding you into thinking that by doing so you were avenging yourself on your chauvinistic colleagues for preventing any future promotion in their organisation, and that it didn't matter you were betraying Mr Blau because he was a criminal anyway.'

Cecilia stared venomously at him, her green eyes now electrically charged in the evening light.

'I don't know how you came by your information, but you're wrong about Lee. If you met her, you'd realise . .' Napoleon smiled grimly at her and shook his head.

'Oh but I _have_ met her; and unlike many others who have shared that delightful experience, I am still alive to tell the tale.'

'She asked me about someone who looked like you, Marshall, when she was checking . . .' her voice trailed off, and then she looked up again, her face at once angry and scared. 'I told her there wasn't anyone of that description. I didn't betray you, whoever you are, like you are about to betray me now.' Napoleon sat back slightly in his chair and looked out of the window. He could tell that she had been completely thrown by his words, her mind frantically trying to reconcile the feeling of double betrayal which seemed to have spun her into a paroxysm of confusion.

'At the moment, I have no intention of betraying anyone' he said nonchalantly, continuing to stare out of the window. You, however, are guilty not only of betraying your employers both here and in Geneva, but also of betraying my partner to your so-called lover.'

Cecilia started forward in her chair.

'Your partner? What, Mr Krause?' There was a slight, indrawn breath before she continued, more calmly, 'exactly who are you, Mr Zweigart?'

Napoleon sighed and got up, leaning his back against the wall by one of the windows.

'My name is Napoleon Solo. I work for an international security organisation known as UNCLE, as does my partner, Illya Kuryakin. When we began this investigation, I had been attempting to track down Miss Bolt for some time, with no success. It was only when we began to investigate you, Miss Luft, that we discovered the link.'

'UNCLE. She told me about you. Your partner is responsible for the way she is now, for all her suffering. He deserves whatever he gets.' Napoleon exhaled deeply and stared at the woman facing him. Obviously her version of 'the Bolt story' was not quite the same as his.

'And she told you how she kidnapped Mr Kuryakin's wife and attempted to kidnap their daughter, did she? Oh, and then there was the small matter of trying to breed a new generation of superwomen to take over the world of course, as well as the little sideline she was running of trying to lobotomise Mr Kuryakin himself. Gee, I'd almost forgotten that, there were so many facets to her operation.' Cecilia glared at him, her face becoming in turns contorted with pain and then lost with grief.

'I . . I didn't know about . . . what happened . . to his family I mean' she stuttered out, her hands clenching and unclenching themselves as she looked at Solo.

'Um, they survived.' He hesitated for a moment, before continuing, 'Miss McCaffery, our art expert. She is Illya's wife.' If the situation hadn't been so serious, he would have laughed at Cecilia's expression, her eyes bulging out of her face as she took in his words.

'But I thought he was a . . . he seemed so, well antagonistic towards women.'

'Yes, well he can come across that way. But I can assure you that as far as that particular woman is concerned, he is only antagonistic to those who would harm her.'

Napoleon came and sat down again, watching Cecilia attempt to understand all that he had told her in the last five minutes. They sat together in a strange, companionable silence for a few minutes, Cecilia with her eyes closed and her head back against the chair while Napoleon glanced at his watch, wondering if he had time to reach Illya before the proceedings began. If he was unable to prevent Ottilie Blau applying the chemical to his partner, it would make it extremely difficult for him to play any further part in the mission, and Solo knew that, given a choice, Kuryakin would wish that his wife's escape was put before his own.

'Ottilie has asked me to meet her at the stable block at 11.30' Cecilia said suddenly, with a low, weary voice.

'You're not going to like what I say, but . .'

'She is involved with Lee?' She lay back again without comment, Napoleon feeling it unnecessary to end his sentence or provide her with any more detail.

'I'll be there' he said, leaning towards her.

'Isn't that a risk, Mr, er, Solo' she replied. 'How do you know that one or both of us won't betray you?'

'I'll be there' Napoleon said.

xxxxxxxxx

The word 'marquee' didn't really adequately describe the series of what looked like mediaeval jousting tents to Napoleon as he began to make his way slowly across the lawn from the open French windows of the drawing room at the back of the house. The yew hedge edging the considerable expanse of grass was a fitting backdrop to the tents, whose pale conical roofs swept down into a broad expanse of golden and green striped silky material lining the interior of each one. At one end, a very large space contained a spectacular array of food, set off by a huge pair of spits just outside, upon which were being roasted two vast pigs. The other end of the set was filled with a very long series of couches at the side, facing an equally long table laden with a number of mysterious looking carafes brimming with what Napoleon presumed were fairly lethally alcoholic beverages. In both tents, young men dressed in outfits reminding Napoleon of a Robin Hood film, plied the guests with an abundance of food and drink.

He felt a nudge behind him as he stared suspiciously at the liquids on offer.

'I wouldn't touch anything there if you want to keep your wits about you this evening' he heard Fernando whisper, as a glass of green coloured liquid was thrust into his hand. 'Mint. Boring, but safe' he heard him say, as together they stared at the middle tent, its flaps firmly closed for the time being.

In front of it was a low stage, its sides and front covered with beautiful arrangements of flowers and leaves. A small set of steps led down from the back towards the tent.

'I presume that your sister, my partner, and assorted other fairies are assembled behind there' Napoleon murmured, indicating the tent with his glass.

'Yes, but you'll notice there are only fairies of a particular gender, apart from sis and Sabi. Luckily, I wasn't chosen for that particular honour' Fernando said. 'I'm sorry Napoleon, I couldn't get to him in time.'

'Don't worry about it. What about the lab? Have they got back to you?'

'Er, yes, just now.'

Napoleon didn't turn round as Fernando reported the results, although it was hard not to react to what Fernando was saying.

'They did some tests, but they had to stop once they realised, it was just too dangerous.'

'So, this pheromone, it only works on . .'

'On men, that's right. The injection they gave us will protect us partially from its effects, but if it works like it did in the lab, he will have every unvaccinated male within five miles after him, and they will kill anyone who gets between them and him. And if they get to him, Napoleon, well, they had to get four women to pull off the chap in the lab.'

'_Guten abend, Herr Zweigart_.' Napoleon started imperceptibly as Rheinhardt Schmidt's voice penetrated his thoughts. He spun round to see Schmidt staring at him, as Fernando disappeared rapidly into the now jostling crowd in front of the stage.

'Something wrong?' he said, looking sharply at Solo.

'You could say that. Is everything set up for tonight's departure?'

'_Ja_, you asked me that ten times over. My 'wife' will escort the package to the agreed destination. There is no problem, none at least that I am aware of.' Napoleon looked up at the German.

'OK, make sure our cousins from London are here on time to mop up. I have to give Mr Krause a little assistance, so I won't be able to give you a hand.' Schmidt sniffed slightly and looked away towards the roasting pigs.

'What, again? What difficulty has he got himself into now? You can be assured that we will perform efficiently while you 'assist' your partner out of his difficulties.' Napoleon glared at him slightly, before walking away across the grass, his nose leading him to the pork and away from the supercilious agent behind him.

xxxxxxxx

'Darling, you look magnificent!' Illya turned his head slightly to bring Sabi into view behind his right shoulder. A crowd of young men were milling round, their costumes simpler versions of the one he was wearing. He could see the awning at the back of the tent twitching slightly, and presumed that Tess must have been inside what he assumed was a much smaller tented room. He wriggled inside his costume and surreptitiously pulled at the crotch, wishing it was all over and he could rip off the fiendish thing.

'Really. It is unbelievably uncomfortable and there is nowhere to hide anything without it showing. Believe me, I've tried' he murmured.

'But you are hiding something, no?' she replied, a little smile lighting up her face. He nodded and then turned towards her slightly, still keeping the back of the tent in view.

'Sabi, don't wait for me tonight. Take Tess away as we agreed. I don't want anything to prevent that.'

'I will not fail you, Illyusha' she said softly, kissing her finger tips and then imperceptibly touching his cheek, before breaking away and rushing towards a group of young men on the far side of the tent.

Without warning, the flap of the tent was pulled back and Illya saw Tess emerge. He could see Raymond bending over a small table behind her, and to the side, the familiar figure of Ottilie Blau. She was wearing a huge velvet hooded cape of a deep bronzy colour, the lining of the hood a dark green, edged with pale ermine fur. Something about her costume and expression made Illya think of a book he had recently shared with Pascale and Pablo.

'_Bonsoir Cruella'_ he murmured as he saw her glancing round the room and then pinpointing him with her eyes. As Tess moved towards him, he could see Ottilie slowly begin to beckon to him with her fingers, her body seeming to tower over the petite form of his wife. Inwardly grimacing, he started to walk towards her, stopping momentarily as he reached Therese.

'What have they been doing to you?' he murmured, as by some good fortune, he was prevented from moving forward by two young men waving fairy wands in his direction.

'Only a bit of make-up' she said brightly, pushing her now rather more pink lips towards him. 'Ottilie said you were next on her list' she added, a slight frown passing across her features. Before she could stop him he appeared to trip and pull her down with him.

'Go with Sabi, keep close to her' Illya whispered rather savagely in her ear. 'I will see you in London.' Tess gazed at him, pushing his hair behind his ear before whispering,

'Until then, _corazon_.'

He pulled her up rather brusquely and then continued on his way, aware of some of the young men gathering round Therese with various comments which he imagined were not flattering to him.

'Finally. Was there a problem, Didi dear?' Illya sighed and pushed through the opening.

'No, only a rather silly group of boys getting in my way' he replied, before sitting on the chair which Raymond seemed to be indicating him towards.

Somehow, despite all his best efforts, he had not been able to either avoid this moment or understand what it was about, and there was something about it that worried him deeply. Without his communicator, he couldn't contact Napoleon, and there had been no opportunity to talk to him in person, or any other agent since he had put on this absurd costume.

Ottilie came up behind him, her cloak rustling on the floor round her as they both stared at each other in the large free-standing mirror positioned in front of them. She gave a curt nod to Raymond, cowering at the table to her side, who instantly handed over a comb, whilst holding what looked like an old-fashioned perfume spray in his other hand.

'Don't worry, my dear, this is just to add that final 'touch' to your appearance' she said, taking the comb and beginning to pull it through Illya's hair.

He gazed at his reflection in the mirror as she continued to rake his hair back from his face, her other hand holding it in a loose pony tail as she combed. He hadn't realised how long it had become, the front hair escaping her grip and falling forward into his eyes in a stubborn refusal to be tamed by her hand. He frowned, wondering where this was all leading, and if the nature of the liquid she was about to apply had been discovered and communicated to Napoleon.

After a few more moments of combing she suddenly let go. He resisted the urge to put his hands through it and restore it to its usual arrangement, instead glancing to his right where Raymond was standing with the liquid. He looked absolutely terrified, his hand shaking slightly, the liquid slopping imperceptibly in its elegant container.

'This won't hurt, of course' she began again, as she patted his hair carefully into place, but it has a somewhat less than pleasant smell. This will pass, my dear Didi, and then you will find that it will make you even more attractive than you are already.' She grabbed the bottle from Raymond, who stepped back rapidly and disappeared out of the tent. Lifting up his hair, she began to spray each section with long bursts.

Illya crinkled up his nose at the pungent odour which pervaded the little room. His brain rapidly tried to compute exactly what smell it reminded him of.

'It smells like . . . . sweat!' he exclaimed, as she grabbed his fringe and with a short burst finished her work. A surprisingly powerful pressure from her hands on his shoulders forced him to sit for a few moments, his hair now plastered to his head and glistening slightly in the light positioned above the chair.

'It will pass when the hair dries' she said icily, an unpleasant sneer beginning to form itself on her face. Suddenly he had a desperate wish to get out of the room, away from her. There was something innately evil in her lingering presence, and although he didn't feel frightened of her, he longed to be anywhere where she was not. It was obvious from her face that she knew what was in this liquid, and that she knew who he was.

Shoving forward, he stood up and faced her.

'It'll take about fifteen minutes to achieve its full effect' she said, pulling up the side of the tent to reveal the hubbub beyond. 'But first, Mr Krause, the fairy king and queen must be presented to their court.'

CHAPTER 16

Napoleon was aware of Raymond scurrying away from the back of the tent and almost running towards the house. He pursed his lips and sighed, before locating where Fernando was serving drinks at the far end of the bar and forcing his way to the front of a jostling group of men similarly attired to himself until he reached him.

'Did you get everything on the list?' he enquired, tipping his glass towards a perspiring overweight man in a green leather jerkin.

'All in place, in a cupboard underneath the niche in the north wall' Fernando replied _sotto voce_, whilst he cheerfully filled the glass of a man Napoleon recognised as a Ukrainian now living in West Germany. 'And a better replacement for that so called weapon can be found in the hollow of the oak behind here' he added, indicating the direction with a slight toss of his head.

'Well if what I think has just happened is right, we'll give it about half an hour and then I'll call him in for a little change of image' he said. It is essential that one of us manages to let him know where to meet, OK? We need to cause enough of a diversion to allow the others at least a fighting chance of escaping this madhouse.'

Fernando nodded, and then moved along the back of a line of merry men who seemed intent on making the guests as drunk as they could in the shortest possible time. As Napoleon retreated from the bar towards the couches, several guests were already lounging about, their voices loud and uncontrolled. As he stared at them, a burst of music coming from the stage alerted even the more inebriated ones that something was about to take place.

Remembering to stagger slightly towards it, he saw that a small group of musicians had assembled to the side, playing an assortment of recorders, sackbuts and other instruments not out of place in a medieval pageant. Some of the young merry men were urging the 'humans' to assemble in front of the stage, the 'bidders' at the auction now augmented by other men whom Napoleon assumed were Adler Society members joining the party.

Cyrus Blau, whom Napoleon had seen wandering round the food part of the tent earlier in the proceedings, now clambered onto the stage. Napoleon could see that Michael Dawkins was also in the melée, but not with his brother. He was dressed in similar clothes to the Robin Hood boys, his tall muscular frame dominating the group of people he stood amongst. Next to him Napoleon suddenly realised, was Cecilia Luft, one of the few women in the party who didn't seem to be taking part in the hunt. Napoleon frowned as he watched them talking, Michael bending his head towards her darker one. There were too many uncontrollable loose cannons in this scenario, he decided; too many possibilities of something going terribly wrong that he could not control. As he stood there, the instruments without warning began to play a rather jolly sounding tune, and the drapes of the central tent were pulled back by an unseen hand.

There was a gasp from the audience, immediately followed by a riotous cheer as the procession of fairies emerged from the marquee. It was immediately obvious that there were to be no females apart from the Queen and her attendant. The young men were dressed in what looked like modified leotards of varying shades of green, their faces made up with dark eye shadow and lipstick to heighten the theatrical quality of their appearance. Napoleon strained forward to catch what he knew would the final part of the procession. After the fairies had clambered onto the stage and taken their places, the musicians stopped and a rather unnatural hush descended. The two groups of men on the stage parted, leaving a gap in the centre, into which Cyrus and Ottilie Blau walked.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows at her cloak, which reminded him of a scene from Snow White he'd watched with Fabian at Christmas. She dominated the stage and her husband, although he seemed unaware of it. There was a microphone at the front, towards which Cyrus stepped.

'Friends, welcome to our evening entertainment!' he boomed, as if this was a gathering that might be taking place in any English home nearby. 'The party will begin shortly, and you have all been instructed as to your roles. As is our custom, the grounds of this house will be at your disposal.' He turned slightly, looking at his wife as he indicated something with his hand.

'And then,' he said, a slow smile coming to his lips, we will continue in another location . . . Napoleon followed the line of his hand towards the house. In front of the French windows what had appeared to be part of a stone terrace had now become two large doors, revealing the beginning of a wide flight of steps leading downwards to what Napoleon knew was Mrs Blau's dark kingdom.

The sudden onset of more music brought the focus of the crowd back to the stage. The microphone had been moved to the side, the Blaus moving with it to leave the centre of the stage empty.

'Ladies and gentlemen, friends' Cyrus began again, 'let the festivities begin. Let the fairies claim their kingdom!' The music seemed to reach a crescendo as the drapes of the tent behind the stage were once again thrown back. There was a moment's hiatus before he saw his partner and Tess process slowly up the steps towards the other fairies, Sabi holding up an incredibly delicate train attached to Tess' dress as she walked behind them.

Napoleon could see from Kuryakin's face that his feelings had gone beyond mere embarrassment at being the centre of attention or the wearer of such a costume. He stared at the crowd, his eyes searching out those of a friendly persuasion amongst the sea of swaying humanity in front of him. Napoleon could see that his hair had been combed back but was attempting to reassert itself round his face. Tess, the only one of the fairies wearing white, was gazing worriedly at him, her hand held on top of his as they moved slowly to the front of the stage.

The crowd seemed frozen to the spot by the spectacle of the couple, a kind of awe enveloping them for a few moments, until Napoleon was aware of a sudden movement amongst them. The men in the audience, both on and off stage seemed to be slowly moving towards his partner, as if some invisible choreographer was directing them. Napoleon moved swiftly through them until he was directly under where Illya was standing. As a kind of low roar began to emerge from the crowd, he forced a piece of paper into the side of one of the Russian's slippers, before slipping back towards the edge of the crowd.

He saw Ottilie grab the microphone and with a deep, piercing voice, shriek 'Fairies, follow your king and queen into the forest', her arm pointing away towards the darkening wood behind the lawn. Illya grabbed Tess's hand and disappeared down the back of the steps, but not before he had crouched down for a few seconds, his hair still held back in places by the rather sticky appearance of the lotion.

There was a minor stampede of fairies off the back of the stage, some of the slower men left behind by their more agile companions. Napoleon caught a glimpse of his partner running in his usual elliptical fashion away into the woods to his right, and, to his left, Sabi and Tess crossing the little bridge and making their way along the path which would lead eventually to the road at the top of the estate.

It was soon painfully obvious who the main hunting party was and whom the prey they were seeking. For some reason presumably only known to Mrs Blau, the male fairies seemed unaffected by their king's potion, and scattered into the woods, immediately pursued by the women hunters, their weapons banging against their hips as they bolted through the forest in pursuit of their targets.

Napoleon was almost flattened by a much larger group of men, a few of them with guns already drawn, charging into the woods in pursuit of his partner. Some of the men were already lying on the ground, or attempting to rise only to be knocked over again by the mob thundering by. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ottilie Blau standing at the entrance to the underground rooms, a lascivious smile across her face. He leapt forward, making a similar grunting noise to the other males in the chase, and headed for the woods, slowing his pace to a sort of stumbling amble to allow the others past him.

The oak loomed into view in the twilight, its branches hanging low and forming a dark canopy over the web of gnarling roots below them. Napoleon straightened and moved behind the trunk, waiting for a few moments until the cries of the mob had faded into the wood. He glanced upwards, feeling the trunk for any gap where his gun might be. He was usually rather comfortable in woods and forests, their denseness giving him a sense of protection rather than fear; a place to hide in and to emerge from at the right time. However, the sounds of this wood were unnatural, as if nature had hidden from what was now taking place here. He glanced at his watch, willing it to be a little later. He needed to find a few of the hunting party and reduce the odds against his partner being torn apart by them.

The tree bark suddenly allowed his hand to push into a small space, where he could feel something hard encased in cloth. With a sigh of relief he yanked it out, tossing the fabric down to reveal his gun with another clip of darts taped to its side. Stuffing the other weapon inside the hole, he pulled off the clip, rammed the gun into the holster across his shirt and set off into the wood, following the baying of whom he realised with a shudder, was a large number of men.

xxxxxxx

Illya scrambled down the bank of the stream, grateful to find an incline beneath the exposed roots of some trees that gave him a kind of shelter for a while. He knew now that in some way the pack of men that he had heard coming in his direction was being drawn by more than merely sight of him. Whatever Ottilie Blau had coated his hair with appeared to be strong enough to evoke an extraordinary response from them once they came within a reasonable distance. All he could hope was that he could keep as far ahead of them as he could until Tess and Sabi reached the gate and Napoleon could signal him to come back.

He crouched down inside the bank and yanked the paper from inside the sleeve of his costume, where he had transferred it after the debacle on the stage. The light was barely enough to see by, even with his glasses on. He lay down slightly and squirmed forward towards the light, holding the paper in front of him. Luckily, Napoleon had remembered his predicament and had written the message in large, bold letters.

Liquid a pheromone attractive to males only. Cannot be removed (sorry). Come to Ice House when alerted. Will try to take out some of them if poss. Stay ahead! N.

Illya sighed and ran his fingers back through his hair briefly before wriggling back into the hole under the bank. It felt strangely coarse, and he grimaced slightly at its texture. It seemed horribly ironic that his hair should have been used as a weapon against him, and he could only imagine one person who would have the knowledge and desire to come up with such a thing so clearly tailored to him.

He dug a small hole in the soft clay of the bank and shoved the paper inside, covering it up with the loose earth and then clambering out onto the side of the bank, using the dangling roots of the trees as a hoist to swing himself up onto the path at the top. Leaning against one of the trees which overhung the bank, he bent down to adjust his slippers, wondering if it would be better to get rid of them and run barefooted as he had on the farm as a boy.

His face hit the path with a soft thump as he was forced flat by the weight of another man's body on top of his. He could feel his hair being grasped and his head pulled back while the man's other hand slid under his stomach and began to roughly grope his genitals. Forcing himself to relax slightly, he felt the grip on his hair relax as his assailant started to roll him over slightly. He breathed in and then dug his elbows back as viciously as he could, pleased by the resulting grunt behind him. Wrenching his body round to face his attacker, he came face to face with Cyrus Blau.

For a few seconds Illya hesitated, before forcing himself up and out of Blau's grasp. The Austrian, momentarily winded, leapt to his feet with an impressive alacrity and forced Illya backwards against the wide trunk of one of the trees overhanging the bank, his body sandwiching the Russian between himself and the tree. Illya could feel his groin pushing against his own as the Austrian pinned his shoulders back against the rough bark behind him.

'Come on, relax, Didi, you know you want this.' Illya widened his eyes and forced himself to smile.

'It's taken you long enough' he replied slowly, hoping that Blau wouldn't locate the zip on his costume too quickly. He relaxed his shoulders as Blau brought his hands up into Illya's hair and began to nibble his neck, bending to adjust his height to the smaller man. Illya stared over his shoulder. Blau's fitness and a certain amount of luck had meant that he had reached his target first, but no doubt the following pack would be arriving soon, particularly if he remained exposed here. He could feel Blau's breath on his neck, the taller man beginning to loosen his own clothing and to search for a way of removing the tight fitting costume of his would-be lover. As Blau bit into his neck, he decided he'd had enough. Without warning he twisted round and chopped Blau across his throat, the Austrian dropping to the floor without a sound.

'Sorry, you just weren't my type' he murmured as he relieved Blau of a small knife he had noticed poking out of his jerkin, and ran off down the path and into the woods.

xxxxxxx

'Fourteen down, and at least the chance of another sixteen to go'. Napoleon loaded another clip of darts into his gun and sprinted along the path by the side of the river, following Vaz's dark form into the woods and towards a clearing he had told Napoleon about when they had met unexpectedly by the bridge. He had nearly darted Vaz before he realised who the agent was.

'A couple of your partner's ex-mates are in the woods' he told him, 'and there's two more in the van waiting for the girls. Fernando gave me to believe our Russian might need a little support.' He had tossed another clip at Napoleon, before tapping him on the shoulder and pointing at something just poking out as the path by the bridge took a sharp turn. They backtracked a little, until the prostrate form of a man could clearly be seen on the path.

'It's Blau' Napoleon said, kneeling and briefly feeling his neck. 'He'll live, but I think he'll be here for a while.' He glanced round, a small twig like branch on the tree behind the body catching his attention. Caught on the twig was what looked like a leaf, the end of the twig pushing through and holding it onto the tree like a dart. Napoleon yanked it off, and held it out towards Vaz.

'Kuryakin was here' he said smiling. 'This is part of his costume; the others didn't have little decorations sewn on like this one.' Vaz stared at the leaf.

'What is he, the 'Green Man'? It's a bit late for Mayday, isn't it?'

'He's Oberon; you know the King of the fairies.' Napoleon replied, stuffing the leaf in his pocket. He could see the Indian agent grinning in the dark, his teeth startling against his skin as they turned back onto the path.

'This I must see, old chap' he said as they picked up the sound of several men ahead of them.

'Much as I'm sure the King would like to grant you your wish, I'm hoping that he's keeping well ahead and not getting any foolish notions into his head about waving goodbye to the girls' Napoleon answered.

The group turned out to be six rather unfit men, who seemed almost grateful to be darted into unconsciousness in the small clearing where they had paused to ponder in which direction their prey might have gone. Napoleon glanced at his watch. They had been going for nearly half an hour and it was rapidly approaching the time for the rendezvous between the girls and the Section Three agents. He signalled to Vaz, who was happily re-loading his gun by the group of men, and withdrew his communicator from his jerkin.

'Fernando? Where are you?'

'Inside the ice house. How is the hunt going?' Napoleon smirked as he looked down at the fallen men, whom Vaz had now heaped into a sort of human ziggurat by the side of a large tree in the clearing.

'Vaz is with me; we've narrowed the odds a little in the fairy king's favour, but I think we should call him in now before anyone else gets lucky.'

'Anyone else? You mean someone did?'

'We found Cyrus Blau near the river. He'd obviously got hold of Illya, but he got out of it. Now, have you heard from the girls?'

'Um, yeah, Schmidt reported in a few minutes ago, said they were waiting for . . .'

A high, stifled scream rose out of the forest, a human voice easily distinguishable from the natural sounds around it, the sound lingering in the air for a few moments before it was suddenly silenced.

'What the deuce was that?' Vaz exclaimed, reaching into his trouser pocket for a clip of bullets which he jammed into his gun.

'Napoleon? What was that noise?' Napoleon stared at the communicator for a second, then into the tense face of the agent facing him.

'Open the outer door to the ice house and when Illya gets there, give him his clothes and wait for me. And don't mention what you've just heard until I get there, OK? Oh, and Fernando, just his clothes, nothing else. Solo out.' Napoleon reloaded his gun, and then drew out a small rectangular box resembling a narrow cigarette case. Flipping open the lid, he stared at the tiny map flickering into life in front of him, a minute red dot flashing clearly in the middle of the screen.

'He's south of here; it won't take him very long to reach the ice house. Let's hope he didn't hear what we've just heard.' He pressed a small green button at the bottom of the case, pausing for a few moments to watch the mesmeric red dot on the screen. The steady movement of the dot south west came to an abrupt halt as he pressed. After a few seconds he saw to his relief that it changed course and was moving south east towards the ice house external entrance.

Vaz gazed at the screen over Napoleon's shoulder.

'Why did he stop so suddenly?' he whispered, as Napoleon shut the case and started to move past the men and along a narrow path flanked by giant rhododendron bushes on either side.

'Er, take it from me, it was a very clear signal to come home' he said sardonically. 'He was probably jumping up and down for a few seconds before he changed course.' He ignored Vaz's confused expression and continued moving silently along the path, the bushes inducing a creeping feeling of foreboding within him. From his memory of their walk on the previous day, Napoleon knew, with a sinking feeling, that the sound they had heard had come from the rendezvous point. As the path narrowed further, the bushes' abundant growth making their approach both hidden and difficult, Napoleon strained to hear any noise which might reveal what exactly had happened and who had cried out so piteously. He could see the end of the path ahead as it began to broaden out to the clearing which led directly to the road. Raising his arm, he signalled Vaz to stop before he stooped down and pushed his way between some less dense bushes bordering the rendezvous area.

The bodies were lying a little distance from each other. Schmidt was spread-eagled on the ground, a small hole in his head clearly demonstrating the manner of his death. Further up a very slight incline, and under an immense pine tree, Sabi's body lay. From what he could see, Napoleon guessed that she had, in some way, been placed there, rather than fallen back like her partner. Forcing himself to remain calm, Napoleon glanced round, his eyes searching the gloom for a third body, a strange feeling of relief flooding his mind when he realised that no-one else lay with his fellow agents in the wood. He got up and pushed his way into the clearing, walking past Schmidt to where Sabi lay, trying to ignore the strangled, heavy breathing of Vaz behind him.

'Go on to the road and find out what has happened there' Napoleon said, staring as coldly as he could into the Indian agent's face. 'Hurry up.' After a moment's hesitation, Fernandez disappeared up the bank and into the pine woods beyond. Napoleon knelt down, forcing himself not to let the tears in his eyes gush onto the face of the girl lying on the ground. He had a sudden remembrance of her with Kat, the two girls with their arms round each other one Christmas party in his apartment, Sabi breaking free to force Illya into a kind of slow motion tango across the room before they both fell in some sort of tangled heap onto a conveniently placed sofa. Illya. Napoleon's heart was clutched with a kind of black heaviness at the thought of telling his partner of what had transpired here; of Sabi's death, and even worse in many respects, of the disappearance of his wife.

He passed his hand over Sabi's face and gently closed her eyes, reluctant to do it, not wishing to contemplate the thought of never seeing them again, her beautiful, grey, laughing eyes. He breathed in deeply and caressed her cheek but not before he noticed a small button like flower on her dress. It stood out from the other decorations on the garment, its hardness contrasting to the delicate flowers scattered across the bodice. Napoleon touched the flower, then carefully turned it over. Underneath, he could see a distinct mark where it had pierced her skin.

'They're dead' he heard Vaz say from behind him. 'There are tyre tracks on the road going in the other direction, I'd say.' Napoleon stood up, and pulled out his communicator.

'Open Channel D. Priority, Code Orange.' There was a slight pause before Waverly's voice echoed through the now eerily still wood.

'What has happened, Mr Solo? I presume nothing good from your activation of code orange.'

'I'm afraid not, sir. Miss Klose, Mr Schmidt and at least two Section Three agents are dead, and Ter. . I mean Mrs Kuryakin is missing from the rendezvous point.' There was another slight hiatus, before Waverly replied, 'I'm very sorry to hear that Mr Solo. And Mr Kuryakin?'

'I think Ms Bolt is behind all this, sir. Apparently these so called evening entertainments are normally, if that is the appropriate word, a kind of relatively harmless sado-masochistic orgy resulting in a lot of serious hangovers the next day. This time some extremely powerful pharmaceutical agents have been used to cause extreme reactions amongst the guests.'

'What sort of extreme reactions, Mr Solo, what on earth do you mean?

'Um, I mean sir, drugs which will completely remove any sexual inhibitions those involved might have, inducing a kind of frenzied state amongst some of them.'

Waverly coughed before replying, 'Yes, I had a copy of the report from Cambridge. I gather Mr Kuryakin has been the object of some of these so called, um, pheronomes.'

'Yes, but we have that in hand. My main concern is to find Therese. I'm sure that Mrs Blau has taken her back to the house at least for the time being, and I know that she intends to leave here shortly, presumably heading for wherever Ms Bolt is.'

'Listen carefully Mr Solo. It is absolutely imperative that we put a stop to this woman and her infernal drugs. I understand your concern for Mrs Kuryakin, but you must stop Mrs Blau by whatever means at your disposal, from giving that woman either money, or any test results, or indeed, Mrs Kuryakin herself.' He fell silent for a moment, before adding, in a somewhat gentler voice, 'I'm sure Mr Kuryakin can help you find her. I know that you will brief him about his wife, and . . . about Miss Klose with adequate sensitivity.'

Napoleon nodded, as if Waverly could see him silently acquiescing to his directions. He replaced his communicator in his jerkin and turned to Vaz.

'Contact the head of Section Three in London and get them to send reinforcements' he said quietly. Tess must be somewhere in that house and I want to know where. Find Fernando and tell him what's happened. I have to help Illya now.' Without a murmur Fernandes disappeared down the path and was swallowed up in the night. Napoleon knelt down again and kissed Sabi's cold cheek, the body already appearing just a shadow of the person who had inhabited it.

'_Auf wiedersehen, liebling' _he whispered. '_schlaf gut_.'

CHAPTER 17

'Thank you. Thank you very much.' Illya stooped over the body of a man whom he thought he recognised as the steel wool haired millionaire from Argentina, and relieved him of a small bottle of water, which he had conveniently stored in the pouch where he was carrying his gun. There were three of them, all obviously unused to hurling themselves through the forest, but it had been difficult to bring them all down without hurting them too badly, and in the melée he had suffered the indignity of having his costume partly ripped from his body, only the bottom half surviving their combined assault intact. He removed a narrow belt from one of the men and wrapped it round his waist in the hope that he could survive the evening at least partially clothed.

Leaving the pile of men face down on a grassy bank by a small group of silver birch saplings, Illya ran lightly along the path leading more or less south. Without warning, an intense burning sensation in his genital area caused him to come to a grinding halt, the pain making him dance up and down on the path for a few seconds as he let loose a volley of very unpleasant Russian words directed mainly at his partner. When the sensation had lessened, he stood for a moment, panting slightly with the shock of it, before turning and running towards the top of the domed building he could see poking out from the trees in the distance.

The wood gave way to a more cultivated area of wild flowers and small flowering shrubs as he approached the building, the doors at the bottom of a steep flight of steps immediately in front of him. Illya slowed to a sedate jog before stopping momentarily at the top of the steps to drink the last of the water from the bottle. A sudden crashing sound from the forest heralded the arrival of six more men, guns already drawn, who began to run full tilt towards him before coming to a halt in a strange unsteady line at the edge of one of the borders. As they came closer he could see that they were jostling each other roughly to get in front, a very large youngish man shoving the others back in an effort to be first in line. Illya flattened himself slightly against the side of the building, before glancing sideways towards the steps.

'Um, good evening' he said slowly, edging sideways, feeling the stones of the structure behind him rubbing his bare back.

'He's all mine!' the man in front gasped, his breath coming in hot bursts as he moved even closer, his eyes suddenly focusing on Illya's belt. Illya could see that he was sniffing, animal like, his nose heading for Illya's hair as his head came up towards the Russian's face.

'Oh I don't think so'. The voice was coming from above Illya's head. Fernando stood on the top of the domed roof, his gun pointing squarely at the men gaping beneath him. As he darted the first three, Illya ducked and squirmed between them, hurtling down the steps and slamming the door behind him. He could hear someone shouting above, and then a furious banging at the door as he slammed the bolts across.

There was a still coolness about the place, despite the noise outside; Illya moved away from the door and for a moment lay back against the rough cold walls of the outer passage encircling the three chambers within. He could see the first of the loading traps just to his right, illumined by a series of large candles set in stone brackets, with matching cupboards set beneath them. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he hauled his tattered costume up a little over the belt and began to walk along the passage.

On the other side, where the main connecting corridor to the house lay, there was a larger area, the way forward barred by a large set of locked double doors. Illya sat down gratefully on a conveniently placed chair by one of the cupboards, ripping off the now wrecked slippers and wiggling his toes a little on the cold quarry tiled floor. As his breathing returned to normal, he stood up and opened the cupboard, pulling out its contents carefully piece by piece. He frowned, deciding that the clothes on the top shelf must be Napoleon's from their size and style. He laid them on the chair and continued his search, pulling out a pair of thin black trousers, a jacket and a black polo shirt, upon which nestled his gun and holster. Carefully laying his finds on the chair as well, he found two sets of underwear neatly folded on the bottom shelf, next to a small cardboard box.

Leaving the box for the time being, he wrenched off the belt and the remains of his costume, before feeling about his genitals and prising off the offending disk from his testicle. Glaring at it, he stuck it on the cupboard shelf before luxuriating in the sensation of underwear again. He had barely managed to finish dressing and slide his gun into its holster before he heard the door to the house begin to open. Illya slid round the corner, unholstered his gun and flattened himself against the smooth wall of the chamber.

'Come out, come out wherever you are.' He sighed and walked round the bend to see Fernando putting Napoleon's clothes on the back of the chair.

Fernando glanced at him before moving over to the other cupboard and retrieving a pair of black shoes from the shelves within.

'I presume you'd like something a bit more serviceable than those' he said, pointing at the slippers. Illya grinned and sat down on the chair to put on the shoes.

'Thank you for rescuing me from that little group of admirers' he said. 'I was beginning to find it all a bit wearisome.' He glanced at Fernando, seeing a hint of something in his deep brown eyes. 'Is there something wrong?' Fernando stayed by the cupboard, his arm resting on its top.

'Whatever they put on your crowning glory, brother, well we are also affected by it, though nothing like as much as the others' he began rather darkly, looking away from Illya as he spoke. 'Don't worry, I'm not going to jump you or anything, I just thought you should know. It'll be the same when Napoleon arrives.'

Illya put his hands up and tugged at his hair.

'I have to do something about this' he said, holding a thick handful of his hair in front of his eyes. Until I do, there's no point me leaving here, unless of course I have an armed guard of females round me.' His gaze wandered round the room, alighting on the cardboard box at the same time as Fernando moved over to the cupboard.

'Er, I think Napoleon has it in hand' Fernando replied suddenly, with a tight smile. 'Let's wait till he gets here, eh?' Illya looked away from the box and regarded Fernando balefully from underneath his thatch of blond hair.

'What's in that?' he said slowly, his eyes narrowing as Fernando came nearer. With perfect timing, Fernando's communicator throbbed and three loud knocks reverberated on the outer door . Almost joyfully, Fernando shouted 'go and open the door then, they're here!', trying to ignore the Russian's amazed expression at being ordered to do something by a junior agent. As Kuryakin moved away, Fernando breathed a sigh of relief and snatched the box from the shelves, hiding it in the other cupboard next to Napoleon's shoes.

If he hadn't known who Napoleon was, Fernando would have sworn he'd been crying. His eyes seemed slightly puffy and a little red-rimmed, while Vaz Fernandez' pallor looked somehow bleached, as if his dark skin had been stripped of a little of its rich deep brown colour. Fernando glanced at Illya, who was keeping a little distance between himself and the others in a bid, Fernando supposed, to prevent anything embarrassing happening between them. He thought of his sisters and their friends, of how much more natural women were with each other. Sabi and Tess often walked arm in arm together; he imagined himself doing the same thing with Illya or Napoleon and the thought of it made him smile. And yet Napoleon and Illya did seem to have a unique relationship; he'd seen them often show physical affection for each other in an entirely unselfconscious way that other men, other partners seemed to find so difficult. He caught himself envying them their closeness, their intuitive understanding of each other.

He saw Solo whisper something to Vaz, before coming over to the chair and gratefully changing into the clothes provided for him. Vaz came over and indicated the door to the house, as Napoleon talked in a low voice to his partner.

'We have a job to do' he said very quietly. 'I'll tell you on the way.' As they opened the door, Fernando turned and pointed to the cupboard.

'Your shoes, sir, and the other things you requested.' Napoleon smiled briefly and nodded, before turning back to Illya.

'What other things?' Illya stood watching Napoleon haul his shoes on and then bundle the costumes up into a ball at the side of the chair. Something about his partner's demeanour worried him; years of watching Napoleon had made him an expert in reading the American's face and knowing when to speak and when not to.

'Take off your jacket and shirt and sit on the chair' Solo said calmly, going over to the cupboard from where he had fetched his shoes, and returning with the cardboard box, and a folded cloth which Illya recognised instantly. Without speaking, he removed and laid his clothes and gun on the floor away from the chair, and sat down, his eyes now on Napoleon as he shook out the cloth and wound it round the Russian's shoulders. Illya noticed his partner's hands shake fractionally as he touched him, before turning away and opening the cardboard box.

'If it is too difficult please say so' Illya said simply. 'I can do it if you prefer.' He stared at the pair of scissors and comb Napoleon held in his hands.

'No you can't. I will do this for you, and then we'll talk. I need you to be still, Illya.' The choice of the word 'still' seemed an odd one, Illya thought, as he slowly bent his head forward. He had never allowed Napoleon to come within a table's width of his hair before now, but suddenly, all the teasing, bantering conversations they had had concerning it seemed light years away from what was happening here. He shut his eyes and tried to push back the heaviness raining down on him just as surely as his hair was now showering his waiting lap.

xxxxxxxxx

He found Napoleon from the smell of the cigarette smoke wafting over the top of the ice house. He was lying back in a semi-recumbent position against the gently sloping roof of the building, his nostrils blowing out the smoke in two steady streams. He turned slightly as Illya approached, but made no attempt to extinguish the cigarette.

'I've thrown it all down one of the pits in case it's still as potent off my head as well as on it' Illya said, smiling. He stood looking at his partner, as Solo came upright and threw the cigarette stub into the grass by their feet. He turned away from Illya and sat down on the ground, searching in his jacket for another cigarette.

'Stop trying to kill yourself and tell me what has happened' Illya said quietly, easing himself down onto the ground beside his partner.

'The rendezvous went wrong. I couldn't tell you until now because you needed to . . well you know.' Illya's face became set, his eyes hardly blinking in the darkness.

'Where is Tess, Napoleon?' Napoleon reached out and put his hand on his partner's shoulder.

'We think she's with Ottilie Blau in the house. I sent Vaz and Fernando to find out where. Ottilie arranged to meet Cecilia at 11.30 in the coach house, so either she is planning to leave Tess here, or . .'

'Take her away.' Illya put his arms over his head, his hands massaging his hair with rhythmic movements backwards and forwards. 'We can't let her, not again' he mumbled fiercely into his chest. 'Oh God Napoleon, we have to stop her taking her to …..' He jumped up, Napoleon getting up suddenly and grabbing his arm before he could move away.

'Illya. That's not all. Sabi and Schmidt, and the two Section Three agents in the van, they're dead.'

Napoleon relaxed his grip of the Russian, aware of his friend's eyes glittering in the twilight as he stared back at him. They stood together for what seemed like a long time, Illya motionless, his expression readable to Napoleon, words unnecessary to communicate the shock and grief they both felt. At last, Illya smoothed down his hair and turned away towards the ice house steps, Napoleon following his partner's swift silent pathway through the tiled passage towards the house. As they got to the door, Illya shot back the bolts, withdrawing his gun from its holster as he looked along the now carpeted corridor within what Napoleon had deemed Mrs Blau's 'kingdom'.

The corridor itself was relatively dark, only lit by deeply shaded wall lights, their rich purple colour allowing the captive light inside them to cast a warm glow on the shadowy walls behind. They could see more light coming from much further along, where the steps from outside had been exposed to allow the guests entry. Beyond those stairs the noise alone gave them a fair idea of what lay ahead.

'Wait.' The bleep of Napoleon's communicator echoed slightly on the curved ceiling of the ice house as Illya stepped back inside. 'Vaz.' Napoleon said, his voice sounding almost grateful that their colleague was still free. 'Where are you?' A high-pitched giggle pierced the silence between the waiting agents, before, after what sounded like a slight argument taking place in the background, Vaz spoke again.

'Sorry about that, chaps, the blighters here are a bit on the fresh side. There, that's better.' The background sounds appeared to diminish slightly before Vaz continued, Illya beginning to stare fixedly at the communicator as if it would reveal the answer to the question that he was desperate to know.

'Vaz, have you found Tess?' Napoleon interrupted, aware of his partner's growing anxiety filling the space they stood in.

'Er, yes, I think so, at least . . .' Illya grabbed the communicator from Napoleon's hand and began to speak fiercely into it, his face rigid and pale beneath the cropped hair surrounding it.

'Vaz, either you know or you don't know. Don't think, just tell me . . . please.' The last word was barely whispered, as if all his energy had suddenly been drained from him.

'Illya, I'm sorry. That bitch has her in a room with these mad dogs queuing up outside. It looks as if there's some sort of lottery going on, with your lovely girl as the prize.' Illya holstered his gun, his face now assuming a set expression that Napoleon knew well.

'Where's Fernando?' Napoleon managed to get in, before taking back the communicator from his partner's slightly shaking hand.

'He's with that hairdresser chappie, what's his name, Roland or something'

'Raymond' Illya replied monosyllabically.

'Yes, exactly the chap. He's . .' There was a slight hiatus, before Fernando's breathless voice could be heard.

'Mrs Blau has given her some drug, so Raymond says; he said she's 'not herself'. You need to get down here quick please, Illya, you have to help her now!' Through the communicator his voice sounded high-pitched, the words screeched and desperate. Illya suddenly sighed, leaning forward and speaking into the tiny cylinder with careful, measured words.

'It's alright. I'm coming now. Everything will be alright.' Napoleon closed the communicator and unholstered his gun, before turning away from the door.

'There's a kind of lodge house at the far end of the drive, near the road. Take her there and I'll send some Section Three guys over. I'm going to the coach house to spoil the leaving party, and I'll see you later.' Illya looked unsure for a few moments, before the reality of the situation and his own logic made him nod and turn towards the door. As he slid back the bolt again, he turned back round.

'Napoleon, I could . . '

'No, you've done enough. Besides, Sabi would have wanted you to go finish her work.' He saw his partner's eyes glimmer slightly and then his eyelids close before he turned and slid out of the door.

xxxxxxxx

The corridor led directly to the area of the house Napoleon had termed Ottilie Blau's 'dark kingdom', but Illya could have found his way in total darkness easily just by walking towards the increasing level of noise coming from the rooms situated at the far end. He pressed himself into the wall as a group of men and women stumbled down the stairs from the garden and rowdily made their way towards the place where low throbbing music was playing in the distance.

A pile of weapons and some clothes had been deposited in two large containers at the foot of the stairs, their owners now having no further use for them it seemed. The corridor led him to a large space which had been converted to a kind of reception area and bar. Recessed lights in the ceiling shone down upon an array of bottles and glasses displayed on the wall, causing them to twinkle like fairy lights. A large glass and stainless steel bar curved round in front of the wall, behind which several young men, now dressed in black silk shirts and tightly cut trousers, were serving similar cocktails to those available in the tent earlier in the evening.

Illya looked round the crowd. Neither Vaz nor Fernando was anywhere to be seen, and he didn't want to use his communicator in such a public place, despite the continuing low throb of the music and the noise of the guests. He felt rather hot, wishing that he could remove his jacket, beads of sweat gathering along his forehead as he began to push through the crowd of people in the room. There were several short corridors connecting this place to what appeared to be a veritable maze of smaller rooms beyond it. Illya frowned, feeling a growing sense of desperation welling up inside him as he turned round.

He felt someone slide their arm round his waist and pull him round. A tallish woman who looked as if she had forced herself into a dress two sizes smaller than she should be wearing, smiled wolfishly at him and lunged forwards, the smell of her perfume and her deep pink lipstick making Illya blink.

'Blond hair. I love blond hair!' she said, grabbing his head and forcing it towards her pouting lips. Illya extracted her hands from his head and slid out of her grasp.

'I'm sorry, I only kiss redheads on Saturdays' he smiled, before moving rapidly out of the room and following a group of men down one of the corridors away from the bar. There were several small rooms along the corridor, each filled with a number of people engaged in various acts which he didn't pause to find out about. As he reached the last room, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

'Fancy any of this? There's a man pretending to be a dog in the next room.' He spun round to face Vaz, the Indian agent almost invisible in the gloom. Illya noticed Fernandes smile and nod towards his hair. 'Glad to see you've been given the chop since I last saw you' he whispered, 'didn't know your partner was such a talented chap.'

'Neither did I, but it's as just as well, otherwise we'd have had a following pack to keep us company' Illya replied. Vaz pointed forwards, towards another larger room just visible at the end of the corridor.

'Fernando is there' he murmured. 'he's having a bit of a hard time of it, but he won't leave her until you arrive.' Illya frowned, sliding out his gun from underneath his jacket, and tapping the dart clip on the end of the barrel. As he looked up, someone came out of the end room.

'Michael?' Dawkins turned round, his face a mixture of surprise and determination.

'Mr Kuryakin? I . . I didn't recognise you, I mean your . . .'

'Yes' Illya said wearily, 'my hair. I'll explain later.' He holstered his gun for a moment, before leaning against the wall and glancing along the corridor both ways. 'Michael, Tess is in trouble, and we need to find her quickly. Can you help us?'

'Of course. I er, just got back; I went for a drive along the coast road and got a little lost. I couldn't find anyone around upstairs in the house when I got back, so I guess I decided to explore down here. I had no idea . . .'

'Michael, I don't have time to explain all this, except to say that your brother's wife is working with an extremely dangerous and evil woman and is planning to betray her husband and all his affiliates this evening. Her partner has a connection to Tess, and you can be sure that they will have planned something very unpleasant for her if we don't stop them.'

'Of course. I owe her, I owe you both. Just tell me what to do.' Illya nodded, then drew out his gun again.

'She's being kept in a kind of cage' Vaz said quietly. 'They each appear to have a key and the one which fits the lock gets the girl, with everyone else as the audience, or possibly as participants' he continued, avoiding looking at Illya's face while he was speaking.

'I need to get in there and then take her back to the lodge' Illya said. 'I think we'll have to wait until someone gets lucky and then seize our chance. If you could help Mr Fernandes here, and Mr McCaffery when we arrive, then we might just succeed without too many people being hurt.' He turned his gun round and offered it to Michael.

'No, you keep it, you're probably a much better shot than I am. I'll carry and you shoot.' Illya smiled a little, and then moved forward, the other two men just behind him.

xxxxxxx

The cage was in the centre of a room which enabled the participants to walk round its entirety, viewing whatever was taking place from all sides. It was slightly raised from floor level by a wooden platform, a small door one end being the only way in or out. Its floor was covered with a dark long piled carpet; otherwise it was entirely bare of furnishings apart from a fixing on the floor holding a long chain, the other end being attached to a large black collar round Therese's throat.

Illya's heart leapt a little as he entered the room, and he felt Michael Dawkins grip his shoulder and then mutter something under his breath. He could see Fernando's face, all attempts to hide the strain now abandoned, standing near the door as a ramshackle crowd attempted to open it with the keys which they were brandishing in their hands.

'What the hell . . .what is wrong with her?' Michael whispered fiercely in Illya's ear as they were pushed against the wall by a clamouring group of men reminding him of food queues in his childhood.

'She is drugged, Michael. She doesn't know what she's doing.'

She was on her feet, her footwear a kind of sandal with thin black leather straps criss-crossed up her legs. Above that, there was very little; a pair of virtually non-existent g-string panties and two red nipple tassels hanging jauntily from each of her breasts completed the outfit. The chain enabled her to not only reach the bars of the cage, but to press herself against them as she paraded round her enclosure. Her hair was loose, but teased into a wild mane round her head, her face heavily made up, the lips so familiar to Illya, now a bright, shiny red, her eyes made hard by thick black lines drawn round them.

Illya had to force himself not to leap forward and tear the men away from the bars as she came past, preventing them from grabbing her in places only he was permitted to touch. As she reached the part of the cage where they stood, she stopped and pulled back slightly, her eyes narrowing.

'D'you think she recognises you?' he heard Vaz say at his side. Illya found himself rooted to the spot as they stared at each other through the bars. He saw her lips writhe slightly, then begin to form an 'Il', her eyes sad and confused as she made the sound. Suddenly, her hair was yanked to the side as a man reached through, trying to pull her face towards him. Before Illya could stop him, he had forced her head against the bars and was kissing her in a brutal fashion, the roars of the other men encouraging him. Almost immediately he was forced backwards by a tremendous yank from someone behind him, the other men parting as a furious Fernando kicked him savagely until he lay on the floor unmoving.

'Stop. Now go to the top of the exit stairs and wait there. That is an order.' Fernando looked at Illya's impassive face, the eyes utterly focused on him, before moving away and out of the room. Illya sighed and signalled to the other two to move towards the cage door, just as, with a tremendous whoop, he heard someone turn the key in the lock and open the cage.

Jumping up on the platform edge, Illya brought his gun up, aware that Vaz was already up beside him. For a moment he wished that there were bullets in it, that he could fire into this baying mob and silence them once and for all. He looked down and knew then that, just like his wife, these people were also victims, though more willing ones he considered. He glanced round to see Michael suddenly power forward through the open door of the cage, knocking the man inside down as if he were a small fly that needed to be swatted away, the key in his hand spinning across the space and landing with a soft thud in the carpet.

Therese, who was now standing in the middle of the cage, dived forward and picked up the key, dangling it in front of Michael and nodding her head from side to side in a mesmeric way.

'Unlock me, big boy' she said in a deep, husky voice, her hand coming up between Michael's legs and grabbing his testicles as she thrust out her neck towards him.

'Hurry up old man, haven't got all night' he suddenly heard Vaz say. Illya remained immobile, the men beneath him also caught up in the drama of the blond man with the gun and the smoking hot brunette behind. Michael wrenched open Therese's collar and lifted her up. As they came out of the cage door, the hiatus of the last few moments seemed to break. Illya, sensing the change, began to fire at the men in Michael's way, as the American crashed through the chaos in front of him. There was a stampede out of the room, the men that were still standing rushing along the corridor past a series of astonished and gaping occupants of the rooms along their way. Michael and Therese were carried along by the tide of men just behind them, until, with a massive surge of speed, he sprinted up the stairs and out into the black Norfolk night.

Almost instantaneously, the cellar spewed out its occupants, men running in all directions, scattering into the dark recesses of the grounds. Michael gasped for breath before gently tipping Therese down onto her feet, as Fernando pounded up beside him. She staggered slightly, before straightening and staring at Fernando, a lazy smile beginning to form on her smudged red lips .

'Yous nice' she began in a slightly slurred voice, her eyes unfocused and swimming. As she moved unsteadily towards Fernando, Illya and Vaz appeared. Kuryakin's jacket had disappeared in the melée, and even Vaz looked rather more bedraggled than his normal dapper self.

'Tess' Illya said, moving next to Fernando. Therese's head jerked slightly towards him, her eyes regarding him for a few seconds before she said, very slowly, 'Ill. . y. . uuuuusha.' She tottered into his arms, everybody suddenly aware of the extraordinarily high heels on her sandals, enabling her to look straight into her husband's eyes.

'Thank you Michael' Illya said seriously as Therese began running her hands through his hair. 'You two should go to the coach house; Napoleon may need your help. I'll take madam here to the lodge.'

'Whus your hair gone?' Therese's slurred voice interrupted, her head nodding over his shoulder as one of her hands slid round his waist. 'I liiiked yus hair; is funny now . . ' Illya sighed and took her hand gently off his head, before gently tossing her over his shoulder.

'Michael, I . . .' He looked round, but Dawson had disappeared. He could feel Therese's hands on his backside as he began to move swiftly up the side of the front lawn under the trees towards the lodge house which he could see lit up beyond the heavy rhodendron bushes that fringed the edge of the estate. It was hard keeping her on his shoulder, but he reasoned that trying to walk with her would have made the journey even slower. Her skin felt rather slippery to his touch, as if someone had oiled it, and he was grateful when the front door of the lodge came into sight, two Section Three agents standing rather idly either side, sharing a cigarette in the gloom.

They came rapidly to attention when they saw Kuryakin approaching, one swinging the door open as Illya came to a halt in front of them and slid Therese down into a semi-crumpled heap beside him.

'Um, we've swept the house sir; no problems identified' the taller, heavier-set one of the duo began. Illya shifted Therese slightly, as her head came up and she gave the agents a sloppy smile before looking back at Illya.

'They's is big but yours bigger' she said vaguely smiling at him and grabbing him between the legs. Illya glared at the smaller agent, who was having difficulty not grinning at the other one.

'Excuse my wife, she's not responsible for her behaviour at the moment' he murmured, before dragging Therese through the door and up the stairs, his foot slamming the front door behind him with a loud bang.

'Reg, did he say she was his wife?' The tall agent reached inside his jacket and brought out another cigarette, which he proceded to light from a silver cigarette lighter offered by his partner.

'Well he said so, didn't he?'

'I thought Doug said he was married to some little Catholic girl from Liverpool?' Reg took a long drag from his cigarette before looking upwards at the bathroom light, which had just come on above them.

'Well, she don't look much like the bloody Virgin Mary to me' he said, winking.

xxxxxxxx

Being with Therese felt like having a very large living rag doll by your side, Illya thought, except that this particular toy had no sexual inhibitions whatsoever. She continued making various attempts to either grope or bite him up the stairs, until he was able to push her into the bathroom and lock the door behind them.

Keeping his eyes on her, he carefully slid his holster and gun to the floor behind him, and kicked off his shoes. Behind her was a shower, unusual for a British bathroom, but for once he was grateful for Mrs Blau's continental taste. Therese eyed him warily, her mouth, the lipstick now crudely smudged across the familiar lips, twitching slightly as he came nearer.

'C'mon on Illyush. . . a' she said unsteadily, her accent rather stronger than usual, 'c'mon and get us.' She lurched towards him, her shoes making a clunking sound on the hard floor of the bathroom until he caught her and deftly forced her down onto the ground, sitting astride her and fending off her attempts to grab him from behind as he removed her shoes and threw them into a heap in the corner.

'I'm sorry _cherie_, but needs must' he muttered, standing up, and then dragging her up to face him. Despite her apparent mental confusion, she seemed remarkably adept at some activities. Before he could stop her, she had unzipped his trousers and yanked them down with his underpants. Illya shrugged, allowing her to complete the task with his shirt, while he pulled off his socks and gently manoeuvred her towards the shower cubicle behind. Removing the minute panties proved easy, but the hideous red tassels still remained attached to her breasts for the time being.

Reaching behind her, he yanked the shower control to cold and turned it on full. The shock even made him gasp slightly, while Therese let out a scream, her arms and legs flailing against him as she tried to escape the freezing water. He held her there for as long as he could, until she began to sob, pleading with him to stop, her words coming out in short gasps as her head spun round, her hair stinging his face as she turned. Eventually he relented and twisted the control until a kinder temperature was achieved.

Almost instantly she collapsed against him, her head burrowed into his chest as she clung silently on. Still holding her, he squeezed some soapy liquid onto the sponge lodged behind them, and began to slowly massage her body with long, gentle strokes. As she brought her head back slightly, he sponged her face delicately, restoring her to her previous natural beauty. Without speaking, she glanced at the bottles behind, and then tipped some shampoo into her hands, bringing them up into his hair and slowly massaging his head as he started to kiss her.

For a few minutes, the sound of the water extinguished any other, the two bodies intertwined with each other under the shower's drenching blast. Illya could hear that Therese's breathing had become more regular, her eyes more focused, first on herself as she tugged at the tassels, and then on him. He put his hand over hers and helped her to peel them back from each breast, before they were dropped carelessly at their feet. Holding her gently, Illya turned off the shower, and helped Therese out, grabbing a huge white towel on the rail nearby and cocooning her in it. She was utterly silent, only her eyes revealing the pain and humiliation of the evening to him.

He lifted her and carried her into the bedroom, laying her on the bed, before returning to the bathroom and putting on a bathrobe which brought back painful memories of the last time he was a guest of the Blaus in New York. She was still lying in the exact position he had placed her in when he returned, her face turned into the bed, the towel fallen back to reveal her tangled hair. Illya pulled open a few drawers before finding a diaphanous silk nightdress, so delicate his hands seemed enormous and clumsy holding it. He frowned before sitting on the bed, and lifting his wife towards him. It came to him suddenly that he had never had to do this before. Embarrassingly, he thought of the occasions when she had had to undress him, usually after some celebratory drink he had indulged in with Napoleon at home, Illya waking to find that he had miraculously been relieved of his clothes and was in bed. Tess, on the other hand, drank little, happy to leave them to unwind, knowing that they needed to.

But unlike him, her helplessness was not of her own making. He let the towel fall from her and slid the nightdress over her head, before lifting her up, laying her head on the pillows and covering her with the smooth cotton sheet folded back at the end of the bed. He lay down beside her, immediately aware of an overwhelming weariness taking hold of him. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, scared that he would fall asleep so easily while she lay there painfully awake. After a few moments where they lay together without speaking, she sighed deeply and lay her head on his chest.

'I . . . couldn't stop her, she, she said it was a present from . . . from Lee.' She gave a huge shudder at the name, her body stiff with the memory. Illya moved down a little and cupped her face in his hand as his eyes came level with hers.

'Can you tell me . . . only if you want to.' She heaved a great sigh again, and gazed at him.

'We reached the clearing on time, Sabi and I and then Schmidt just behind us. She spoke to the two men in the van and told them we would be with them, but just as she was speaking to them, the communication went down. There was a noise behind us and then, and then Schmidt was lying there dead. It was so quick, Illya, his life gone.' Her eyes began to fill with tears, but after taking a few deep breaths, she continued.

'Ottilie appeared out of nowhere; there were three men with her, not those boys helping out at the party, but others, older, meaner looking. They made Sabi throw down her gun and then . . . and then . . .' The tears flowed rapidly down her face, her body against his feeling so taut that it felt as if it might snap at any moment. Illya said nothing, giving her time to recover before the final, harrowing moments of the life of someone so precious to both of them were told.

'The men were holding us, one of them waving a gun at Sabi. Ottilie pushed him back and went up to her. We were near enough to hold hands, oh Illya she was trying so hard to help me! Then Ottilie came up to her really close. She got hold of one of the little flowers on Sabi's dress; it wasn't like the others, it was more like a badge really. All of a sudden she clicked it between her fingers and pushed it against her. I don't understand . . . she just sank down then, as if all the energy, all her life was being drained from her. They carried her back to this tree, and I held on and sat with her. Ottilie came up, she was smiling so cruelly, it was horrible. She knelt down and said those words, and we both realised then what she meant. She's with Lee, isn't she? She made that poison. She killed her because of me.'

Therese began to cry freely, her chest rapidly rising and falling as she struggled for breath. Illya held her close, staring over her shoulder through the window into the night. Her own nightmare experience had been submerged by this memory of the death of their friend, and of her responsibility for it.

'No. You are not to blame,_ corazon'_ he murmured, stroking the wild hair from her face, 'you know that. Ultimately, only one person bears responsibility, with the aid of very willing accomplices.'

He continued to hold her for a while, until her breathing lengthened and he felt her body become slack in his arms. His own mind and body were cajoling him to stay with her, forcing his eyes downwards to join her in sleep and rest. He shook his head slightly and gently extricated himself from her hold, kissing her cheek as he slid from the bed and crept out of the room to retrieve his clothes. He put his head under the tap in the sink and turned on the cold tap, shuddering at it and hoping it would somehow invigorate him for at least the next few minutes. Scrambling into his clothes, he strapped on his holster and checked his gun, before slithering gently down the stairs towards the front door.

A fug of smoke alerted him to the presence of the two Section Three agents at the side of the house. He was already upon them before they had chance to extinguish the cigarettes they were enjoying together.

'Put those out and get back round to the front' he hissed at them, their faces registering their shock at his appearance. 'I'll be back shortly and I'll expect you to be where you should have been. Understood?' The two agents nodded dumbly before scrambling round towards the front door as Illya disappeared into the darkness.

Illya reasoned to himself that it was a waste of time either contacting Napoleon or going to the coach house, where he hoped the others had arrived by now. If for some reason, Ottilie Blau escaped Napoleon, he had to ensure that she would not escape him. It was relatively easy to follow the line of the high thick hedge that bordered the Blau Estate, the main gates being a relatively short distance away from the lodge house, which was situated by the road but beside a more minor entrance to the house. As he ran as swiftly as he could in the darkness, Illya felt a kind of creeping exhaustion taking hold of him, making his legs heavy and his eyes sore. He stumbled a few times in the undergrowth by the hedge, willing himself onwards, trying to keep hold of the rage that he felt at Sabi's death, channelling it into achieving his goal of preventing her murderer from escaping justice.

To his left side he became aware in the gloom of the summer night of the road forking from the straight drive and winding its way towards the smaller gates by the Lodge house. He stopped for a moment, glancing down the drive towards the coach house where he could see a bright light emanating from its open doors. He strained to hear of any noises coming from that direction, but it seemed that unless he was too late, Ottilie Blau had still not left the building. Fighting back the overwhelming fatigue coursing through his body, he forced himself onwards towards the gates.

xxxxx

The boot of the small red sports car was still open when Cecilia stepped inside the coach house, a matching set of exclusive looking luggage stacked side by side in its small space, two smaller cases wedged onto the diminutive back seat. Ottilie Blau slammed shut the boot with a firm clunk and turned slowly round as Cecilia faced her.

The wide double doors of what was now used as a garage were flung open, the drive made free for her to leave when she chose. Cecilia could see the pollarded trees stretching out in a straight line in front of them towards the huge ornamental entrance gates, lit up by a series of low-set lights which made them appear even more like something a child might have drawn in some school colouring book; and then, in the far distance to the right, the lights of the lodge house at the end of the narrow road forking away from the trees.

'Coming to wave me goodbye?' Ottilie said, her lipstick, now a bright orange colour, drawn in a thin, hot line across her face. She was dressed for travel that was obvious, the theatrical costume of the evening discarded for the more practical outfit of tight thin trousers and top, a bright orange silk coat enlivening the ensemble and matching the vibrant tone of her lips.

'I need to know . . . I . . .'

'What do you _need_ to know, Cecilia?' Ottilie gave her a withering look, before a cruel smile played across her features. 'Oh, you need to know about Lee. You finally worked that out, did you? I'm impressed.'

Cecilia felt her face suffused with hot blood, as if her thumping heart was directing it all towards her head. One of her hands closed round the little cylinder she had brought from her room, the other fastening itself round the gun she held inside the bag dangling from her shoulder.

'You won't . . .' She was interrupted by loud, mocking laughter. Even Ottilie's perfectly regular white teeth felt to Cecilia as if they were laughing at her.

'Oh please. You're not going to say we won't get away with it, are you? But we have got away with it, and you, you pathetic little girl, have helped us. Oh, but you surely didn't think Lee was in love with you, did you?' She leaned into the car and retrieved her handbag, from which she extracted a set of keys, the metal objects on the ring jangling brashly in the empty echoing space.

Cecilia stepped forward, her body pressed against the side of the car as she came nearer to the other woman.

'You won't get away with this, because I will stop you.' Ottilie began to play with the key ring, passing the various objects on it between her fingers.

'You will stop us? Oh really.' She sighed deeply, and opened the car door. 'And how are you going to do that, my boring little bank clerk? Tell your bank that you have attempted to defraud them of several hundred thousand dollars? Oh, or you could tell those nice Jewish people who own the paintings that you and that nice Mr Krause stole? Oh, do tell, my dear, I can hardly wait.' Ottilie took a small step towards Cecilia, her face showing the enjoyment she was experiencing at the other woman's fear.

'I'm going to tell UNCLE' Cecilia said simply.

Ottilie shook her head, her mouth wide open in a contemptuous smile.

'Ah, UNCLE. I presume you mean Mr Krause, or should I say Mr Kuryakin now that we don't need to pretend any more. Ah yes, Mr Kuryakin; such lovely hair. It's a shame that it's the cause of him probably lying in several pieces somewhere in the forest. Yes, it's a pity he couldn't be around to help you, Cecilia, or to help his wife either. I suspect by now she's enjoying the attentions of quite a few of our more enthusiastic guinea pigs.'

'Ah, sorry to disappoint you Ottilie, but hopefully, by now they're both safe and well and tucked up in bed . . . with each other'.

Napoleon meandered into view from behind the door Cecilia had come through, his gun pointed in Ottilie's direction. Cecilia turned round, her eyes showing both shock and gratitude at Napoleon's appearance.

'Marshall, how lovely that you could drop by' Ottilie said coolly, her hand still swinging the keys just behind Cecilia's head, 'but I really don't think this is anything of concern to you.' Napoleon saw a momentary glimmer of uncertainty in Ottilie's cold glare before the customary look of superiority re-asserted itself.

'Well I think you'll find that it is very much of concern to me, and to my organisation' he replied, moving slightly closer to the two women by the car. Cecilia still looked scared, but after glancing at Napoleon, she turned more confidently to Ottilie.

'Ottilie, allow me to introduce you to Napoleon Solo, from UNCLE. He's going to help me make sure that the real criminals in this affair are brought to justice.' Ottilie sniffed slightly, before looking Napoleon up and down through narrowed eyes.

'Well well well. Napoleon Solo. We were told you were elsewhere in the world by our contact in your organisation, and you were really quite deceitful in not telling Lee about him, were you not, Cecilia?' She moved fractionally towards Cecilia, the keys still dangling from her hand. 'I do hope you don't hold out any hopes of a lasting relationship with Mr Solo, my dear. I'm told he has a perfectly divine wife and a rather sweet little boy tucked away at home.'

Cecilia looked rapidly between the other two, Solo's expression fleetingly changing, his eyes continuing to be fixed on Ottilie Blau.

'Nice try, but I rather think it's not about me, Ottilie, is it? Now, if you wouldn't mind, it's getting rather late and the Norfolk Constabulary have a nice little cell with your name on it they're keeping warm for you. Not up to your usual standards, but you'll only have a short time to get used to it before we take you back to UNCLE for an interesting little chat about what you and your girlfriend are planning to do with all that money.'

Napoleon moved forward slightly, Ottilie Blau's fingers now grasping one of the disks on the key ring, as she opened the door of the car and stood in front of it. Before he could react she had dragged Cecilia towards her, her long fingers curled round the neck of the other woman as she positioned Cecilia between her and Solo.

'Mr Solo, you'll have to sacrifice your little collaborator here to get to me' she said, her sharp sneer in vivid contrast to the look of absolute terror on Cecilia's face.

'Let her go, Ottilie; you know there's no way out now' Napoleon said calmly, his eyes slightly squinting at what he thought might be figures among the trees on the drive as he edged closer. Ottilie stared at him for a few moments, and then plunged the disk she held in her fingers onto Cecilia's neck. As Cecilia slipped down between them, she slid into the seat of the car and with a roar, drove out of the garage.

xxxxxx

Illya drew his gun from the holster and released the safety catch as he heard a car roar into life and headlights shoot out their beams into the darkness. As he peered towards the house he was aware of two figures, one running ahead of the other, emerge from the trees on the other side of the drive. As the car gained speed, the first man leapt into the drive, his hands akimbo. Illya saw the little car brake slightly and then swerve to the right, the man knocked aside casually as it began to accelerate again up the narrower road.

With a grunt, Illya turned and sprinted back towards the Lodge House, crashing through the scrubland by the hedge, feeling the car coming up upon him as he ran. There was a slight scream of the tyres as the car braked to take the sharp bend as the Russian reached the gates and flung himself down on the ground, bringing up his gun and firing at the car as it braked to turn into the road. For a moment, he saw Ottilie stare at him, before the car flipped sideways and hit the gate in a cacophony of steel and stone. Illya stood up and staggered back towards a large oak tree silently witnessing the event behind him. As he slipped down against its reassuring trunk, he felt the heat of the explosion wash over his face. His arms fell to his side, his gun slipping from his grasp as finally exhaustion won its battle over him.

xxxxxx

Vaz appeared by Napoleon's side as Cecilia eyes became gradually more unfocused.

'There's somebody out there' Solo said, before turning his head towards the woman in his arms. As she lay there, he felt her hand come up and press something into his. He bent his head down to hers, as she whispered, 'stop . . . her' before her hand fell back again for the last time.

He laid her down gently on the floor as the ringing sound of two shots were followed instantaneously by the harsh grinding of metal on metal and a tremendous fireball lighting up the night sky. Fernando burst in through the door, glancing at Cecilia, and stood panting near them.

'What was that?' he shouted, as Napoleon got up.

'I've got a feeling that was Mrs Blau and a large pair of gates having an argument, and the gates winning' Napoleon replied, as they began to run gently along the drive towards the now considerable tower of flame near the Lodge house.

'But there were some shots' Fernando panted slightly, as they spotted Vaz in the distance with another man.

'Yeah' Napoleon answered, before slowing down to a walk, 'so who fired?'

As they approached, Napoleon could see that the other man was Michael Dawson. They were crouching over somebody at the side of the drive, his legs splayed out between the two men as they knelt either side. Napoleon ran up as Michael turned and stood up.

'It's Blau' Vaz said. 'Michael here found him in the woods. They came back here and then Blau saw her going and tried to stop her. She just ran him down.' Michael looked at the silent figure before turning towards the blazing vehicle. Another man was running towards them, whom Napoleon recognised as one of the Section Three agents guarding the Lodge.

'Sir, it's Mr Kuryakin sir. I think he needs help.' The four men looked at each other before Napoleon, with the others following, began to run along the narrow road leading to the Lodge.

Illya was laying against a tree, his gun lying by his hand and his legs stretched out in front of him. Napoleon ran up, just preventing him from sliding over.

'And what are you doing? I thought you'd be tucked up in bed by now guarding your lovely wife.' Illya's eyes slowly opened and a soft smile illumined his face.

'I . . .I thought she might get away' he began, the effort of even speaking seeming almost too much for him. 'Tess is . . . safe' he smiled, his eyes opening and shutting intermittently. 'I couldn't allow that woman . . . to go . . . for Sabi's sake.'

Napoleon glanced up as the others arrived, keeping his hand on his partner's shoulder to keep him upright.

'He's alright, just come to the end of his energy reserves for the evening' he said. 'I think he needs a bit of bed rest now.' Michael pushed forwards through the others, handing Illya's gun to Napoleon before hauling him over his shoulder, the blond head of the Russian agent standing out against Dawkins' dark jacket as he began to walk slowly towards the lodge.

'Get Section Three to collect up the bodies and see to this' he said, pointing to the now blazing wreck of the car, which was now welded in a mangled heap to the gate into which it crashed. He walked off, following the bobbing head of his partner until they reached the lodge and went upstairs to the bedroom where earlier Illya had carried Therese.

In the half-light they could see her lying across the bed, in repose as Napoleon gently moved the hair from her face. Illya had obviously managed to clean her up in the shower and remove the scant clothing she had been wearing, replacing it with a very fine nightdress which Napoleon assumed must have come from somewhere in the room. As he pulled back the sheet, she didn't stir, the two men carefully laying Illya down next to her, before they began to remove his shoes and clothing. He groaned slightly as they rolled him over, his eyes continuing to open and shut, but his body seemingly not able to summon the energy to either help or hinder their work.

As they removed his shirt and trousers, Michael's eyes narrowed slightly.

'What the . . ' Napoleon stared at his partner's back in the moonlight, the powerful muscles not disguising the story of Illya's life as an UNCLE agent.

'Yes, he does come in for his fair share of punishment' Napoleon murmured. 'Luckily, this here is the only souvenir of this particular mission' he added, pointing to the scar in the centre of Illya's back sustained in Israel after the bombing of the Aaronheim's house. 'Don't worry, he has help to make it all better.' Michael smiled, and, as if to underline Napoleon's comment, Therese moved, bringing her arm across Illya's neck and drawing herself towards him.

'Um, I think this is where we leave the fairy king and queen' Napoleon said, ignoring Michael's confused stare. 'I need to call someone special and we all need to get some rest before tomorrow.'

'And what happens tomorrow?'

'We attempt to sort out the mess, of course.'

CHAPTER 18

Waverly swung the table round so vigorously, Napoleon had to grasp its edge with his hand to avoid the files sliding onto the floor.

'Thank you sir. I hope the report answers any questions you may have had concerning the financial aspects of the case?' Waverly tapped his pipe on the ashtray behind his chair and sighed.

'Well you're fortunate that your wife was able to untangle most of the legal mess created from all this, together with Miss Clark from Accounts. The financial side of this mission makes even your expenses claim look simple in comparison, Mr Solo.' Napoleon grimaced slightly and opened the file, wishing that Illya would hurry up from wherever he was secreted at the moment.

Waverly flicked through the papers in front of him, drawing out one with Illya's familiar neat handwriting on it.

'Mr Kuryakin was able to gather a considerable amount of information from the details left in Miss Luft's bank vault' he muttered, jabbing at the page with his pipe. The cylinder Cecilia had pressed into his hand had contained a key, Illya recognising the name of her bank impressed into its barrel.

'Yes, the bank were eager to cooperate, and she had extensive microfiched records of all the Adler transactions' Napoleon replied, looking at his watch. 'It appears that Mrs Blau had been siphoning off money from Adler accounts for some time. We managed to prevent them getting their hands on the money from the paintings, but before that, they must have amassed quite a pile.'

'And one shudders to think what purpose that money is being put to' Waverly said, putting down the file. 'When Mr Kuryakin arrives, perhaps we can discuss that matter.'

Napoleon stood up and went towards the coffee set out on the cadenza behind them. He had written the report with a positive spin, but he felt a sense of unfinished business about the whole thing.

'Um, where is Mr Kuryakin, sir?' he asked, sipping his coffee, as the old man joined him. Waverly sighed, helping himself to another cup.

'I believe he's down with Dr Coleman somewhere, doing his duty to UNCLE in the cause of scientific knowledge' as Coleman put it.'

'Doing his what? Is he in the labs?' Waverly smiled and put down the cup.

'I believe Mr Kuryakin has something which Dr Coleman and his colleagues would like to examine, but which he was rather reluctant to donate' Waverly continued. Coleman came up here complaining about it, so I was forced to remind Mr Kuryakin of his duty to the Command. He lifted his hand and gave his hair a little tug, before coming back to sit at the table.

'Oh. I see. Well, I think I might just pay Lab C a visit and see if I can hurry things up a bit.' Waverly looked up from a file he was staring at intently.

'What? Oh, yes, you do that Mr Solo. We haven't got all day to spend waiting around for Mr Kuryakin to become cooperative.'

He could hear the raised voices even in the laboratory reception area, Coleman's rather high, squeaky tones followed by Illya's lower, colder ones.

'Hello Belinda, having fun with my partner, are you?' The Receptionist, a rather attractive brunette he had dated once, threw down her pen, and pushed back her chair.

'They have been at it for about fifteen minutes now. I am finding it hard to concentrate!' she said in the southern drawl that he had once found so attractive.

'Mmm. Well, I suggest you ring Rudi and tell him to get up here pronto with the necessary equipment. Tell him Illyusha needs him, that'll be enough.' She stared at him for a moment, before grabbing the phone and punching in numbers with her pen.

Napoleon advanced towards the lab and pressed the button to gain entry. In the corner of the room a space had been cleared, the floor covered by a plastic sheet upon which a lab stool had been placed. On the lab counter at the side Napoleon noticed an array of implements, including a large bowl of soapy water and a razor. Coleman, an extremely thin and rather diminutive man whose bald head was surrounded by hair of a strange gingery grey colour stood almost head to chest with Kuryakin, who compared to him looked surprisingly big and very menacing.

'Napoleon. Perhaps you could explain to Mr Coleman here that donating a sample does not mean giving him every hair on my head' Illya began, beginning to tap his hand on the counter behind him, his wedding ring making a clunking sound as he talked.

'And as I explained to you, Mr Kuryakin, we need a large sample to enable us to make a proper study; _and_ we need a control sample of your normal hair for comparison' Coleman squeeked, glaring at the Russian and bouncing slightly on his feet in frustration.

'Ye-es, I can see both sides of this argument' Napoleon started tentatively, ignoring Illya's raised eyebrows. 'Um, why don't you just give him the treated hair, Illya, and then Dr Coleman, you can use any normal hair as a control, couldn't you? Rudi would give you some samples, I'm sure.' He walked over and held up a clump of the Russian's hair, cocking his head to one side. 'Um, you've got about an inch and a half grown since I, . . since your little brush with Mrs Blau. That should make you look more or less normal if you let him have the rest, comrade.'

'I'm not letting him touch me.'

By perfect timing, the door slid open.

'Oh my God, darling, what are they doing to you?' A look of utter confusion reminiscent of his baby boys swept across Illya's face.

'What are _you_ doing here? Oh, I see.' Illya took off his jacket, bent down and grabbed a pair of plastic overshoes before walking onto the plastic and sitting down. Coleman thrust another pair in Rudi's direction.

'No contamination of the site' he squeeked.

'You can all go now' Illya said, taking off his holster. 'Mr Coleman can collect the sample later, and I'll see you in Reception, Napoleon.'

'Ah yes, the synagogue, for Kaddish.'

'And make sure you bring my Yarmulke. I'll need it to keep my head warm.'

xxxxxxx

The lunchtime rush at Katz's delicatessen has lessened a little, so it was possible to find tables near each other.

'I love this place, Orin Aaronheim beamed, 'I love the pastrami!' Illya nodded, his face partially hidden beneath a vast pastrami sandwich.

'Yes, this makes up for the indignities of this morning' he muttered. He put his hand to his head, feeling the short layers of hair lying neatly across it. Therese put her lips to the side of his head and kissed him.

'Aw, you look sweet' she said, grinning at Napoleon and Jo, 'no more horrible stiff hair, all soft now.' Illya smiled in spite of himself, putting down the sandwich to look at his wife.

She had recovered well from the traumatic events of the summer. Their holiday had given them time to talk, for her to grieve for Sabi and to talk about her. They found that all of them had needed to do that, even the children. Having the children with them again had been therapeutic, a chance to do normal sane things again. Yet the shadow of Bolt, at least in Illya's mind, still lingered, a spectre that he knew would have to be resolved if their lives were ever to be safe.

He felt a hand tugging at his jacket.

'Papa, Frankie is worried. _Grandmere n'est pas ici_.' Illya looked steadily at Pascale and then across to the next table, where Frankie and Fernando had all the children, the twins on their laps with the other Kuryakins and Fabian squashed in amongst them all. He got up and came across, Tasiya instantly standing up and holding out her arms.

'Tasiya,_ assieds-toi. _What's the problem?' Frankie got up and pulled him slightly to the side, away from the children.

'Look, I didn't want to bother you with this, I . . I just thought it was a bit, well he was a bit creepy.' Illya frowned.

'Frankie you're not making any sense. Who or what is a bit creepy, and what's it got to do with my mother?' Frankie stared at him, her earrings jangling as she talked.

'Jeez, I'm sorry. OK, this guy called a couple of times, said he knew her from back in the Ukraine. He sure had a foreign accent, a bit like yours I guess, but not quite, more like Ingo's, yeah more like that.' Illya sighed, pursing his lips as she talked. 'So, I told your mom and she said she'd wait in to see if he called again. You know, he reminded me of someone.' Illya glanced behind him and caught Napoleon's eye.

'Frankie, this is important. Who did he remind you of?' Frankie frowned in concentration as Napoleon came up to them. Suddenly her face cleared. 'Yeah, that's it! In some weirdo way he reminds me of Michael, you know that guy who used to have the hots for Tess, who's now in Israel?' Illya swallowed, before turning away from her towards Napoleon.

'Blau' he said quietly, as Napoleon grasped his arm.

'I'll hail a cab; tell Fernando to keep everyone away until we call.' He dashed outside the shop as Illya turned back to the children.

'_Papa va pour grandmere'_ he said calmly. 'Fernando, I think you should all go back to Napoleon's new house, the children haven't seen it yet.' He could sense Jo behind him, her hand on his arm.

'No problem. Fernando, Frankie, get the kids; Orin and I will sort the tickets. Here' she said, thrusting two tickets in his hand, 'you'll never get out of Katz's alive without these.' He nodded, then ran out of the shop, thrusting the tickets in the hand of a man at the desk as he hurried by.

On the street, Napoleon had the cab door open, the cab taking off as Illya hurled himself inside.

'How on earth did he know where your mother lived?' Napoleon said, loading his gun as the cab eased its way through the traffic along Houston and turned right onto Eighth Avenue.

'Stop at the top of Grove' Napoleon shouted at the driver, before leaning back to watch Illya ram a clip of bullets into his gun.

'I think it must have been accidental, while he was looking for Michael' Illya said grimly. 'Michael's been spending quite a lot of time with Frankie and Fernando before going to Israel. Well, with all of us really. Somehow, Blau must have used his contacts to track Michael, and then seen my mother.' He sighed, the severe haircut making him look at once a strange combination of hard man and vulnerable child to Solo's eyes.

'It'll be OK. I've called for some backup and we can cover both exits to the house. When we arrive you go through your house and in the back way, and I'll try and cause an upset at the front door. If I don't get anywhere, I'll join you later.'

Illya nodded, as the cab drew up outside St Clare's church. He glanced at the building, so familiar to him now, the little path at the side leading to the school where he had passed so many times and no doubt would continue for many years to come. A slight frisson of fear clutched him as he walked rapidly over the crossing and started to run down the road towards his house. This little part of New York, so precious to him, so preserved from that other, more dangerous part of his life, now drawn down into it. He ran up the steps and thrust his key into the door, pressing his thumb into the fingerprint pad before the door swung open to admit him.

He dashed past the double pram in the hallway before running into the back room and threading his way between toys and musical instruments to reach the French doors. Shooting back the bolts, he felt carefully for the key secreted behind the curtains in the frame of the windows and opened the door. Keeping close to the wall of the house, he glanced up. On the first floor he was aware of a flash of something at the window, and then for an instant, the face of his mother before she disappeared from view.

The doorbell was insistent, as if someone was leaning against it.

'Let me answer it. I can get rid of them.' Blau signalled to Marina with his gun.

'Sit down doctor. Whoever it is will go away soon, and then we can continue our interesting conversation _nicht wahr_?' Marina sat down on the bed, Konstantin Blau towering over her, standing by the window.

'So, you live here now with your husband, and next door lives your son and his family. The son who you assured me was, what was it, 'staying with relatives in the country'. But you lied to me doctor, didn't you? He walked away from the window and grasped a large photograph standing in a group on a table.

'How lucky you are, my dear doctor. Not only a handsome son, but he has a beautiful wife and many, many children. And all I am asking is the whereabouts of my brother; that is all.'Marina got up and moved to the window.

'He is where you cannot find him. My son's organisation has seen to that. He is trying to make a new life for himself, away from his past; away from you.' She turned quickly and looked out of the window, catching sight of Illya below her before Blau had caught hold of her arm and dragged her away. The ringing on the doorbell had stopped now, and Marina felt a slow, paralysing fear begin to seep into her.

'I can't believe you've forgotten how people like you must be punished for not cooperating' he said slowly, pushing her down onto the bed. Although he was older, he still looked remarkably fit, his hair still a dark shadow on his head, his body long and lean. In a sudden, harsh movement, he forced her onto her front and wrenched her arms behind her, tying her hands together in a painful knot. She felt the barrel of his gun press into her temple as he leaned across her and knelt on the bed, his legs either side of her body.

'Get off her, Blau.' Blau jerked his head up, bringing the gun up with him as Illya appeared in the doorway. Looking back on it, Marina could only remember the moment in a kind of slow motion sequence; Blau's shot, Illya falling, and then Napoleon coming through the window. As Blau's body slumped beside her, she began to scream, frantically fighting the rope until she felt someone release her. She leapt off the bed, aware of her son on the floor and the creeping stain of blood from his abdomen soaking his clothes.

As she cradled his head, a cold logic entered her.

'Fetch my bag, in the next room' she ordered Napoleon, 'then in the bathroom, towels, quickly.' Laying him down on the carpet, she ripped open his trousers, the blood covering her hands as she removed the clothes from the wound.

As she worked to stem the tide of blood, she looked round at the motionless figure behind her. 'Is he . . .'

'No' Napoleon replied calmly. 'Only sedated. We wouldn't want him to miss his day in the Israeli courts, would we?' A thundering of feet on the stairs announced the medical team, Napoleon got up to give them room, pulling Marina up. 'Let them do what they need to do' he said. 'I'll wait and take you to UNCLE.' She stood uncertainly, her dress covered in blood.

'Call Theresa' she said, 'now.'

xxxxxxxx

'I can't believe you just didn't fire.' Napoleon pulled his feet off the side of Illya's bed as a rather attractive nurse came in the room and removed the chart from its place by Illya's feet.

'And would you have just fired if it was your mother he was pointing his gun at?' Illya replied, leaning his head back against the pillows.

'I hope you're not hasseling our favourite patient' the nurse said sharply, going over to Illya and gently pulling him forward before re-arranging the pillows behind him.

'Come again, 'favourite patient'? Has there been brain surgery performed in my absence?' Napoleon murmured.

'Mr Kuryakin has been a model patient since he arrived' she cooed, smiling at Illya, 'Precious and I don't know where his reputation for being awkward is coming from.'

'Oh, Napoleon, allow me to introduce you' Illya said, as an identical nurse to the one stroking Illya's brow came into the room. 'Miracle and Precious, meet Mr Solo, my partner. Mr Solo likes twins . . .'

'Of the girl variety' Napoleon said, as Miracle passed by him to join her sister the other side of Illya.

'Miracle and Precious are on loan from our Bermuda office' Illya continued, his brow contracting a little as Precious wheeled in a small dressings trolley.

'Now don't you worry your little head about this old dressing' she began, 'just settle onto Miracle like we showed you.' As she cleaned the trolley, Miracle positioned herself to the side of Illya and turned his head, crushing it into her ample bosom. Napoleon blinked, staring at Precious.

'Does his wife approve of this?' he whispered.

'Oh my yes, when Miracle ain't here, she acts as Miracle, if you see my meaning. She says it keeps him calm.'

'Really? And you offer this service to all your patients?' Precious whipped off the dressing, Napoleon noting Kuryakin's slight wince, before a more beatific expression returned to his face.

'Oh no! Only to those selected for_ special_ treatment Mr Solo.'

Napoleon saw Therese come through the door, her finger to her lips as she did. Edging up the side of the bed, she took off her coat and seamlessly took Miracle's place by the bed.

'Hello darling' came the muffled reply. She laughed and kissed his hair.

'Have the girls been telling you about their model patient' she said, lifting up his head slightly. She looked down at the wound, now in its latter stages of healing. He had escaped a wound infection, but he had no memory of the first days, when she had lain with her head on his bed in Intensive Care, the two Bermudian nurses caring for both husband and wife as he struggled to survive.

Illya shifted himself slightly on the bed, looking up into Therese's topaz eyes.

'They say I'm allowed to come home at the weekend if I promise to behave myself' he said, his lips twitching slightly. Therese pushed him back onto the pillows and glanced over at Napoleon, whose sardonic expression was very easily readable, at least by her.

'Don't let him get away with anything' he said; 'Mr Waverly is expecting him back by Christmas.'

'Oh I shan't,' Therese replied, her hand finding her husband's ear beneath his hair and gently following its line. 'It'll be strictly bed rest, won't it darling?' Illya's frown dissolved into a barely suppressed grin.

'Definitely' he nodded.

xxxxxxxx

He could see the snow falling through the bathroom window as he dried his hair, and then wound the towel round his waist. Despite the weather, the room was delightfully hot and steamy, and Illya leaned forward and rubbed the mirror over the sink with his hand, his face appearing through the steam as he stepped back.

The gauntness he had seen in the first days at home was almost gone, Therese's regime of rest and delicious meals restoring him to health, supplemented by a fitness regime instituted by Ingo, which had begun fairly gently, building up to a fairly excruciating level ensuring his return to the field in a shorter time than his wife had hoped for. He sauntered out of the room and headed towards the bedroom, aware of the faint strains of music from the floor below and a fainter crashing of plates and laughter from the depths of the house. The door was open a little, and he knew for certain that someone was inside.

'Darling, I . . .' He came up short in front of the bed, his lips drawing into a tight line. 'Napoleon. I thought you were . .' Napoleon raised his eyebrows at the sight before him and got up from where he was lounging on the bed.

'Obviously, unless our friendship has reached new levels of intimacy I hadn't realised' Napoleon replied, smiling at the scowling Russian in front of him. He wandered over to the window and, pulling the curtain back slightly, glanced into the street.

'You'd better hurry up, your guests are arriving' he said, turning back to see Illya yanking underwear out of one of the drawers of the enormous shop fitting that contained all their clothes. He scrambled into his usual white shorts and t shirt before turning and sitting down on the chaise longue that skirted the wall opposite the bed.

'Napoleon, is there a reason why you've taken up residence in my bedroom, apart from wanting to evade any preparations that may be going on downstairs?' Illya asked, as he pulled on a pair of socks, his eyes now partially hidden by a thick fringe of partially dry blond hair, which had flopped forward as he bent down.

Well, yes, as a matter of fact, there is. I thought you might like to know the current situation regarding our favourite villainess before you go jetting off to Albania tomorrow afternoon.' Illya frowned deeply and sighed, before walking over to the unit and taking out something from the depths of its capacious wardrobe section.

'I'll only be gone a few days, it's just a glorified courier job' Illya muttered, as he pulled on one of his usual black polo neck jumpers. 'Unfortunately the government of Albania regard beards and long hair as a sign of western capitalistic bourgeois liberalism, so I need to conform to my passport photograph if I am to enter the country without being arrested.'

'Well God bless the Albanian Government and all who sail in her' Napoleon said, as Illya's now fairly flowing blond hair emerged from the neck of his jumper.

Illya glared in his direction before grabbing a pair of trousers which he'd thrown onto the back of the chaise-longue.

'You're not going to wear those?' Napoleon stared at the trousers, unconsciously smoothing down his own perfectly pressed pair of slacks which denoted the extent to which he was prepared to go along the casually dressed line.

'There are three reasons why I'm wearing these' Illya began, starting to ease the brocade trousers up his legs. 'First, because Connie bet me twenty dollars I wouldn't wear them; secondly, because of who is downstairs and who expects me to be wearing them, and thirdly, because they signal the end of my enforced holiday, and according to Tess, they go perfectly with this.' He tugged at his hair, which had now settled itself round his face in a thick shaggy pile. 'Tomorrow, I will return to normal duty, Frank will have his way with my hair, and these', he said, smiling, 'will be consigned to the back of the wardrobe.' He began to button the fly of the trousers, wriggling a little to achieve some sort of comfort within them. 'What d'you think?' he said finally, staring at himself in the mirror on one of the closet doors.

'You really want to know?' Napoleon said. 'I think . . that there are going to be quite a few girls and boys downstairs who are not going to forget the sight of you in those pants for a long time.' Illya groaned slightly, before sitting down again on the chaise-longue.

'Well in that case, we need to talk now, before things get out of hand downstairs' he said. Napoleon sat on the end of the bed, looking at his partner. Tomorrow, this hippy with the soft blond hair would be carrying out his orders with ruthless efficiency, a trained operative dedicated to his task. Not for the first time, Napoleon marvelled at his partner's ability to seamlessly pass from this part of his life, this house, this family, to that other life of dedicated service to the cause of justice in an evil world. He could see it in his eyes now; Kuryakin, despite his outwardly outlandish appearance, was now totally focussed on whatever his partner might want to convey to him.

'When you return, Waverly wants us to concentrate full-time on finding Ms Bolt and destroying whatever empire she's built for herself' Napoleon began. We have a few clues to be going on with, but we can't afford to let any more time pass by, especially since we now know that she has a large amount of money at her disposal. Added to that, there is the little matter of a spy in our midst.'

'What spy in our midst?' Napoleon reached inside his jacket and brought out a notebook.

'I did tell you, but you were in a semi-comatose state at the time, so I'll excuse you just the once. Just before Mrs Blau took off on her final journey up the drive, she let slip that someone in UNCLE was passing information to them.' Illya got up and came over to where Napoleon was, before taking the notebook from him and glancing through the list of names it contained.

'Mm, I presume from this that all these names crossed out have been cleared' he said, putting on his glasses and peering closely at the page.

'Indeed. Vaz and Fernando have done most of the grunt work, as the British so quaintly put it, but Waverly is not keen that anyone else be involved, for obvious reasons. I'm not entirely certain yet, but I don't think it's anyone in either Section Two or Three. From what she told me, the informant thought I wasn't involved in the Blau affair, which suggests to me that they are in a Section with less access to sensitive information.'

Illya nodded, and removed his glasses, putting them back on the bedside table, before sitting back down on the chaise-longue to put on his shoes.

'So, we find the spy first, or we go after Bolt?'

'I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know when you get back. Oh, and Illya, Waverly feels our families should have extra protection while until this whole thing is over.'

Illya frowned, before getting up and going towards the door.

'Alright, I agree that may be a sensible precaution. Tess is aware of the threat Bolt poses . . . to all of us.' He inhaled deeply, before stepping out onto the landing. 'Well, let's try to enjoy ourselves, at least tonight' he said.

The party was in full swing in both rooms on the ground floor, the furniture pushed away in the back room to enable people to dance, the record player pounding out a series of songs at a volume which made Illya glance anxiously towards the speakers before he felt someone slide their arms round his waist and a familiar head came into view.

'Wow, sexy' Therese whispered in his ear, 'I'm not sure I should leave your side for the rest of the night.' He turned round, loving her bright red silk dress and her hair flowing loosely down onto her shoulders.

'Please don't' he replied, before she took his hand and pulled him gently into the room at the front of the house.

Illya could see at a glance that there were a number of staff from the Steinhardt school standing in the room, it being the relatively quieter of the two available spaces. As he appeared behind Tess, he heard a collective gasp, the loudest, and most theatrical, coming from Paula Behrens.

'Oh . . my . . . God!' she screamed, rushing over and grabbing them both in a vice-like grip, one either side of her. 'Tess, you said you had a surprise for us, but, Jeez, you mean to say, I mean, all the time you were married to . . . him?'

Therese smiled beatifically, encouraging Illya to at least look moderately amused by the outburst.

'Illya, his name's Illya, Paula. Paula grinned hugely, then glanced down, before whispering 'well he's certainly well hung, baby; I can see how the three kids arrived so quickly.' Leaving Illya mortified behind her, Therese managed to guide Paula back into the melee of people now staring at the Russian.

'Don't tease him, Paula, he's very sensitive' she said smiling. 'Besides, I'd rather avoid the subject of babies in front of him at the moment, if you don't mind.' Paula stared at her, then began to smile.

'Right' she whispered, mercifully quietly this time. 'Message understood.'

The light seemed to have a quality in that early morning moment that he hadn't noticed before. Much later, looking back on it, the memory of the light, and the way it illuminated Tess's hair on the pillow, would return to him repeatedly when he thought of that time. He sat up and looked at her for a long while until at last she stirred and her eyes opened.

'When are you going' she said quietly, without moving.

'Soon. I have a few things to attend to first, and then . . ' He lay down and took her into his arms. When more light had filled the room, she murmured,

'I'll be here. We all will.' A faint smile drifted across his face.

'I'm counting on it' he murmured.


End file.
